


Complications

by RedEris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 36,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had started with what she thought was a mild tummy bug.  When, after a week and a half, the nausea had not passed, Ainsley Trevelyan had begun to conceal it, because no one needed to be worrying about her more than they already were.  If she had further suspicions, she pushed them deep down into the “not now” box.  After three weeks of fluctuating nausea and coming up with ever more specious excuses for her endless potty stops, it came to her in a horrible rush that she was…what, at least two weeks overdue for her menses?  And she knew, and could not doubt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had started with what she thought was a mild tummy bug. When, after a week and a half, the nausea had not passed, Ainsley Trevelyan had begun to conceal it, because no one needed to be worrying about her more than they already were. If she had further suspicions, she pushed them deep down into the “not now” box. After three weeks of fluctuating nausea and coming up with ever more specious excuses for her endless potty stops, it came to her in a horrible rush that she was…what, at least two weeks overdue for her menses? And she knew, and could not doubt.

Well. Adan had told her that no potion was a guarantee. She spent one night and one night only quietly losing her mind in her tent, but she knew what she had to do, nothing had changed there, so in the morning she got up and tramped on and killed Red Templars (the father of her child, he could have been among them—Andraste’s mercy on them all) and pretended fiercely that everything had not changed.

She got away with it for another week before she looked up from retching behind a convenient outcropping to find Solas’ eyes hard on her. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“How far along?”

Well. So much for pretending.

“Ahhhh…I think my last menses came right after we took Fort Revasan?”

“After which we returned to Skyhold and spent a week in…recovery. Ah, so. Six weeks, then.”

She knew that when he clasped his hands behind him like that it was meant to make him seem non-threatening—just another part of a carefully-cultivated image—but she had not been fooled for some time and he certainly didn’t feel non-threatening now.

“You can’t tell. No one can know. Surely you understand that? Nothing can change.”

“Commander Rutherford?”

“Maker, him least of all. Him least of all. Can you see it? He would hold the door against my leaving with his own body. I don’t need more of his worry. He doesn’t need more worry. I can’t do anything differently. We have to finish this. If we don’t, there’s nothing for…” She couldn’t quite say it out loud. “Nothing for anyone to grow up in anyway. I saw that for myself. If I do anything differently, people will know.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“You are correct, my friend. I merely hoped to hear it from you before suggesting it.”

“Arrogant bastard.” She said it without heat, and not for the first time. One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll help, then? I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up on my own. I’m…not sure how much longer I can keep this up anyway. Not really my area of expertise.”

“You are athletic and it is a first child. I imagine we have at least a month, at most two before there will be anything to notice at bathing time, longer of course in your robes.”

“That’s…not very long.”

“Then we must hope that we can resolve this all quickly, or face what comes as best we can.”

She looked at him for another long minute, but his eyes were gentle on hers now. She held out her hand, and he took it.

“Thank you, friend. I am…glad you’re too smart for me. I just hope no one else is.”

“Fool girl.” The words were harsh, but she smiled.

“I know, I know. Next time keep yer blighted pants on, right?”

“Indeed.”

They had nearly reached camp when he said quietly, “The nausea should fade soon.”

She faced that day feeling better than she had all week.

………………

Five days later, as they wound their way through the passes back to Skyhold, the warm fuzzies were well and truly gone. Ainsley’s excitement over finally seeing Cullen warred with a sick dread over being dishonest with him—and about something which, she couldn’t help thinking, he had a right to know. Her reasoning was not wrong, she knew. It killed him to let her walk out that gate every time as it was; it was another burden on a heavily burdened mind. He would not, could not, deal sanely with the idea that he was also sending his unborn child out to face monsters and demons. The fact that she could face it herself made her wonder if any person so heartless had any business having a child anyway, but clearly that was water under the bridge. And yet…and yet, it was his child. Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, and she was taking away his agency. That was not the relationship she had ever wanted, and certainly not the relationship she’d meant to form when she fell in love with a man precisely for his indomitable will. Even in a best case scenario, the skies sunny and clear, the rifts sealed, Corypheus (she always thought of him as Coryphepiss in her head, thanks to Sera) a bad memory—ahh, well. Then she would have to tell Cullen that she had lied to him for months and willfully and knowingly risked his child’s life along with her own. Another betrayal from a person he trusted. 

By the time the walls of Skyhold swung into view around the jagged edge of the nearest mountain, her stomach was thoroughly knotted. At least, she thought, few of her companions represented a real threat to her secret. Most of them were soldiers, her inner circle almost all lifelong warriors or mages; neither group was likely to have more than the most passing ideas of childbearing—herself included. Sera she would avoid, sorry though she would be to do so. Life in the streets, she imagined, would provide much more exposure to such things than her own life in the tower had. Solas, she was never going to fool, but thankfully she hadn’t needed to. Cole…

Cold sweat broke out all over her body. Oh, Maker, Cole. She looked over her shoulder and, spotting Solas, reined her horse back until he was next to her. Panicked, she hissed at him, “Cole!”

“Yes. A concern I have given thought to.” He did not say ‘of course’, but she heard it and winced. Cole. Still too easy to forget. “It would have been best had we sent ahead to send him on some errand outside of Skyhold, but I did not have enough warning to make such an action feasible.” She winced again at the implied rebuke. “Clearly, even I have little control over what Cole sees or says. Still, I will speak with—“

“Shit!” Ainsley jerked on her reins and the bay charger shuffled sideways in irritation. Solas brought his mount to a standstill with more grace, his face as impassive as ever, but a keen observer would have seen a muscle twitch repeatedly in his jaw.

“Hello, Cole.”

“Hello! I heard you call me. You…but…Ohhhh! Ohhhh. Hello, little one!”

Ainsley looked around frantically. Naturally, Blackwall, Dorian, and Varric were all looking their way with interest, Dorian kneeing his mount nearer and already within conversation distance. Desperately, she thought “STOP! Do not speak! Do not say it!” with all her will, investing it with all the fear and desperation it deserved. To her enormous relief, Cole said no more, only looked at her with bewilderment writ large on his face.

“Good afternoon, Cole,” said Dorian, coming alongside. “Care to climb up? I am very anxious for a heated room and a heated bath and a solid roof, and will brook no delay.”

Cole swung up behind Dorian nimbly enough, and turned to Ainsley. “But…he will want to know. I don’t…”

“Later! Later. Please. Later.”

Cole felt silent, and Dorian shot her a long look under lowered eyebrows, but at last turned away and kneed his mount forward. The first hurdle had been cleared. Not cleanly, perhaps…she felt pretty confident that the lie was limping a bit on one hind leg so far as Dorian was concerned, at least…but since it could easily have died horribly right there on the path, she felt confident that the hollow feeling in her ribcage would resolve itself soon enough. Solas rode ahead, back straight and face forward as though nothing of any note had happened, and she resolved for the thousandth time to hold her cards to her chest with as much unflinching aplomb as he did. She had a pretty strong feeling that he had more practice than she did.

……………….

They were seen from the gatehouse, and by the time they reached the outer courtyard, Cullen was there, waiting. The unadulterated joy on his face as he devoured the sight of her swept everything else from her mind, and she slid down into his arms with no thought save how very, very good it was to be held.

The remainder of the afternoon and evening passed in a blur of updates and messages and decisions too long delayed and withered apples, cheese, and bread eaten mechanically while leaning over the war table until she had to ask them to repeat themselves too many times because she could not focus any longer. Leliana declared her useless for the night and playfully assigned her Commander the task of seeing the Inquisitor safe to her bed. This he did with alacrity, but there was a moment of uncertainty once they got there, the little shuffle people do when they’re trying to decide if both of them want what they both think they want.

“Please. Stay with me. I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”

“I am yours.” And with that, he lifted her off her feet and onto the high bed.

She thought of nothing save his body and hers until much later, slipping into that dangerous space between waking and sleeping where anxieties lurk. Guilt reared up to choke her, and she pushed it down ruthlessly, reciting the Canticle of Trials in her head until it blurred into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not done writing the whole thing, so I'm trying to pace myself with postings, but I really didn't give you much to get on with the first time and couldn't resist the impulse to post more. So here's getting to know Ainsley a bit better.

The next morning, Ainsley woke up feeling as hale as she had in weeks. She ate so much at breakfast in the great hall that Cullen was provoked to enquire as to whether she’d been properly fed on the road. When they parted ways, she kissed him so thoroughly that he pulled away from her looking nervously around the hall to gauge their audience, and she laughed at him.

The next stop could not be delayed, though, and so she collected Solas and they went off in search of Cole.

He was not to be found in the dark recesses of the tavern, and fear had plenty of time to start clawing fingers up her back before they found him in the infirmary, bent over an occupied cot.

“Cole? If you would come with us.” Cole came to Solas immediately, and the three of them took the first stairway up to the battlements.

“I can talk now?”

“Hang in there please, Cole. We don’t want anyone else to hear. You deserve a chance to talk and to hear our reasons but the really super most important thing is that you please, please, please, not share what you’ve seen in our heads with anyone else.”

“Why? Are your heads dangerous?”

“Frankly, yes. Here, sit under the wall with me. The wind gives me earache.”

Solas made sitting cross-legged on the stone graceful and natural, Cole perched like a disheveled crow, and Ainsley was fairly sure that she looked like a grubby child despite her years, huddled up with her knees under her chin.

“Alright, go.”

“He’s you, but he’s him, too. Mixed together, matched up. It hurts you not to tell. It will hurt him. But you don’t want to hurt him. I don’t understand.”

“Yes, all that, yes, but…wait, he?” She stopped, looking down at herself. “He.”

“She sees him for a moment, whole and real. That makes it worse. Or better? She doesn’t understand either. I can’t pull the pain loose. It’s all wrapped up with fear but there’s a little joy inside and it’s trapped.”

Ainsley ran her hands over her face and shot a pleading look at Solas.

“It is delicate, Cole. If Commander Rutherford were to learn of his son, do you think he could send the Inquisitor out to fight our enemy as she must?”

Cole cocked his head as if listening. “Fighting, freezing, hungry, was she hungry the whole time? Must…I can’t…not mine. Everyone’s. Thedas needs her. I need her! I can’t…I…must. He hurts all the time, she hurts him but she heals him.”

“And if he knew?”

“She thinks he could not bear it. He is very strong, though.”

“You are right, of course. I am sorry we ask this thing of you, but please, trust us in this. She will tell him in due time.”

“It hurts her. There is a wall now and she needs to touch.”

Ainsley tried again. “Yes, it does hurt. It will probably hurt worse later. But I think it would hurt many more people if we tell them. I would rather hurt just me. It helps me to be strong and carry the hurt for them. I try to help them, like you.”

“But you’re not like me. You’ll remember.”

“So I have to do it my way. Let me do it my way.”

Cole was silent for a long minute, looking out over the keep, and Ainsley began to think that he’d forgotten they were there, but then he turned back.

“Okay.”

…………………….

At the base of the stairs, the three parted ways, and Ainsley found herself at loose ends—or, more accurately, realized that no one had found her with a new task yet. She cut a corner, up a quick set of stairs, and took the back way to the library looking as small and insignificant as possible. Looking small and insignificant was something she had a lot more practice at than looking powerful and inscrutable. It had worked out pretty well for her until it had gotten her chosen as as non-threatening a clerk as possible for the journey to the Conclave. Either it worked for her this time, as well, or everyone was too busy to look her way, because she made it to the library without being stopped.

Mercifully, Dorian was in his usual alcove.

“Psst! Dorian!” she hissed. He looked up and arched an elegant eyebrow. Okay, maybe it was a little melodramatic. “Hide with me? No one’s found me yet this morning.”

“Should I encourage this?”

“Yes! Yes you should. I’ll be good later. I swear on Andraste’s blushing buttcheeks, I will.”

“Cassandra just punched a wall and doesn’t know why. You are a terrible Inquisitor.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t pick me. Are you coming or not?”

He sighed and heaved himself out of the chair ostentatiously, then leaned over and slid a book out of his pile. “I will permit it. But only because I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

These days, it was hard to find an appropriate hidey-hole in Skyhold. The musty tower room she’d found months ago was now packed wall-to-wall with bedrolls and the meager possessions of Wardens, a few of whom were dicing by the door.

“Look, let’s just go to your room. They’ll find me in mine. There’ll be banging on the door…”

“The Inquisitor in my room? Scandalous!”

“Oh, get off it. Anyone who still thinks you’re here to corrupt me is an idiot and I’m reasonably sure nobody’s worried about protecting my chastity at this point anyway, not with me making Cullen blush every five minutes.”

“He does blush so prettily, doesn’t he? We all thank you for that. Alright, come along.”

Ainsley insisted on having him scout around every corner all the way there, to Dorian’s utter exasperation.

“Is this the mage I killed a high dragon with? The savior of Haven? Star of the Winter Palace? Fasta vass, what are you about, woman?”

“I’m being ten. Well, no. I’m imagining what a normal ten year old is like and being that. Give me this. Soon enough Coryphepiss and his dragon will come charging up our left flank and I’ll pull up my boots and be the Inquisitor again. Sera would get it. Sheesh.”

“You wound me, woman. Alright, here we are. The Grand Villa.”

“Mmmph. I hate my room. Trade? I used to share a room this size with three other women. Your room probably used to be the size of mine.”

“Well, we all make our sacrifices. Don’t suppose you have a spare blanket though?”

“We’ll get Cassandra to punch a bear for you. You should’ve said something.” Ainsley threw herself down on the narrow pallet while Dorian latched the door.

“Well, now I’ve got you at my mercy. So.” Something a little harder crept into his voice. “You wanted to tell me something?”

“Bruhhhh?” Well. That went well. Ahem. “I just wanted to be a big baby and hang out with the most stylish mage in Skyhold for an hour instead of dashing around making decisions I am ludicrously unqualified to judge.”

“So. Nothing to say about your little encounter with Cole yesterday?”

“Oh! Uh, that! No that was…that was just…well. I’m planning a surprise. For Cullen. And you know…Cole. Sorry. I’d tell you but it’s sort of big and you might give it away accidentally if you knew.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Sorry. That sounds… I trust you. Just you know what they say about secrets. Anyway, didn’t you say you wanted to talk to me?”

Dorian left her on the hook for a moment longer before looking down at the slender volume in his hand, flipping it back and forth contemplatively.

“Well, if you’ve already got a gift in the works for Cullen, you may not be interested. I found an intriguing spell, never heard of it before.”

“Ooh, no, do tell! What is it?”

“It’s an amulet. A set of amulets. They’re bonded to two people, and each of them wears one. So long as you’re alive, his will glow slightly, and vice versa, no matter the distance. It’s a bit finicky-sounding, but I thought that Dagna and I could probably pull it off. And I thought, well, you spend a lot of time worrying about Cullen unnecessarily worrying about you.”

“Ohhhhhhh! Oh, Dorian, no, that’s beautiful! What do we need?”

“Due to the Inquisition’s diligence in collecting resources and your and Bull’s peculiar fondness for finding exotic wildlife and killing it, we’ve actually got everything we need except for a lock of your hair and a lock of Cullen’s. Think you can manage, Your Holiness?”

“That’s…huh. Cullen’s hair’s pretty short. And he’s…uhhh…surprisingly fussy about it.” She tugged on a chunk of her own sandy, short-cropped hair. “I’ll manage it. I'll get the hair if you're serious."

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it. Bring it to the Undercroft tomorrow morning, then."

"Thank you, Dorian! That’s the sweetest…the sweetest...oh…oh dear.” And she burst into tears.

“Venhedis! What…?”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know! Only, you’re so sweet to me, and everyone’s…Everyone…I mean, I had friends before, but you…you’re all so amazing and I love you all so much and here’s you and you find this complex, crazy spell no one’s even heard of before but you don’t even think, you just come and offer…gkkk…oh, I already need a hankie, oh, Maferath’s balls, what is wrong with me?” An elegant handkerchief embroidered with a peacock appeared in front of her lowered face, and she took it gratefully.

“Well, I had always imagined that I would at least avoid ever having any crying women in my bed.”

Ainsley laughed wetly and looked up at Dorian, who looked positively pained, one hand out as if trying to decide whether to pat her.

“I’m sorry. Just…let me lean on you for a bit, would you?” She patted the space next to her on the cot. He obliged, somewhat stiffly at first, and they leaned together companionably for a few minutes while she got her sniveling under control.

“Ugh…there. I think that’s done it. Really, I must be more tired than I realized. I’m sorry.”

“You should be. Ghastly. You’re all blotchy, you know.” The words, of course, did not match the concern in his gentle eyes.

“Why do you think I avoid crying? Ahh well, time to go meet my duty. Leliana will give me that look, and I will fortify myself with the knowledge that I have now shared a bed with two of Thedas’ most handsome men.”

“Also, wow, I could murder for some turnip greens right now. With lots of butter and vinegar. That’s...unusual.” She got up, rolling her shoulders and shaking out her arms. "Well, off to look regal and source turnips, then."


	3. Chapter 3

After that, she did indeed “pull up her boots”, and spent the remainder of the morning and the afternoon in Josie’s office in meetings with the seneschal, exchequer, and quartermaster, the mages’ representatives, a Baron of somewhere with too few consonants, and a half dozen other notables. Cullen was in the valley with the bulk of the army, and it ached to be so near and yet so far.

As the diplomat and the Inquisitor neared the end of their docket, runners were sent, and the sun had already been lost behind the western peaks, painting everything in charcoal and gold, when the advisors gathered around the war table. When she heard the clank of vambrace against placard through the council room door, Ainsley ran into the hall to meet Cullen.

He laughed as she flung herself into his arms and then jerked back at the touch of wind-chilled metal against her cheek. “Miss me?”

“Always. So much. You know, armor is not snuggly.”

“I believe that’s more or less the point. I’m sorry. Here…” His arms were behind her thighs and she was up, up, and her legs were around his waist and he was kissing her and nothing else mattered. When they stopped, she nuzzled her face into the juncture of his neck and his fur collar, and he rested his cheek against the back of her head, and they stayed there, perfectly still, letting the day’s aches and cares drain away.

When at last they came to the table, the women waiting there were smiling indulgently. Soon enough, though, they were all business again.

“Ser Colombe informs me that Orlesian troops are still having trouble with these so-called Freemen of the Dales here”—Cullen indicated a marker not far from the end of the pass down out of the mountains—“and here”—further south and west. “He tells me that should the Inquisition assist, he will be better able to spare troops when we need them.”

“Those assholes. Blight it. I really wanted to like them, but they’ve got someone reanimating the dead and raising demons, and that’s just beyond the pale.”

“Quite.”

“We’ll go. Their troops just aren’t prepared to fight their own dead and despair demons to boot. Don’t fret—these days that’s a bit of light exercise for my crew. We’ll see how many I have to Stonefist before they realize they’re beaten.”

“But Inquisitor, it’s out of the question for you to leave at this time. We have a great deal more business to attend, and I have arranged a tea that simply cannot be canceled in two day’s time.” Josephine made her very best puppy eyes.

“Oh, for…Cullen, how urgent is the situation in the Dales?”

“I believe it is a matter of being pinned down more than a life-and-death crisis, at the moment.”

“Josie, will there be cheese tarts? I need there to be cheese tarts.”

Josephine smiled in victory. “I’m sure we can arrange for cheese tarts.”

“Then we’re off for the Dales in three days. It’s close—I’m sure we can wrap it up quickly.”

They reviewed the latest from the talks between Orlais and Ferelden. King Alistair, Ferelden to his core, was clearly out of his depth, but the reforms he and his Warden queen had instituted over the years regarding his elven population aided his cause greatly so far as Briala, Marquise of the Dales, was concerned. The matter of succession, inevitably, was a tender point and a bone of contention, as neither kingdom had a clear heir to uphold any policies or treaties that might be agreed on. Leliana had once confided to Ainsley that the king and queen’s failure to continue the Theirin line, while not surprising, had been a source of sorrow to both. Ainsley couldn’t help thinking of the unfairness of it all—no child for a couple who would have been so glad of one, and one for her, who had never even thought of parenthood except as something to be avoided. And Cullen? She knew so little about what he might dream for the future, now that everything was changed for him.

The last orange had faded from the sky and the cressets were burning by the time they wrapped up for the night. As she emerged into the great hall Ainsley turned right to collect her supper, but Cullen’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. 

“Ahh. My lady…” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and Ainsley smiled at the familiar fidget. “I…hope you don’t mind, but I have arranged for a dinner to be brought to your quarters? I thought…that is, I was hoping to spend some time in private with you.”

“Oh, Maker, look who’s a romantic now. I’m sure I don’t deserve you.”

In her room, beeswax candles were burning in all the sconces and a tablecloth had been spread over her desk and set with a half-dozen covered dishes. A fire roared in the fireplace.

“I’m afraid there are no cheese tarts. Had I known…” He grinned lopsidedly. Ainsley laughed and peeked under a cover. “Noodles! Cheesy noodles! Oh, I forgive you for the tarts. Maker, it’s good to eat anything at all besides goat’s meat and barley pottage morning, noon, and night.”

She sat and started filling her plate without further invitation. “Blackwall does most of the cooking, did you know? Dorian, Cassandra, and I are hopeless, Bull’s idea of dinner is giant hunks of undercooked meat, and everything Solas makes is so strangely herbed. I don’t mind it so much, but the faces Cassandra makes! Sera is…ah…experimental. I did learn to skin a ram, though! I giggled the whole time, thinking of how the girls back in the Circle would shudder and gag.”

“I have never learned to cook for myself either. Perhaps someday you will be an expert and then teach me. I remembered that you liked noodles with cheese, but otherwise this meal is entirely the kitchen’s doing.”

“Well, it’s perfect. So congratulations to the kitchen, I guess. Ahhh, love?”

“Yes?”

“Are you…uhmm…did you mean to cut your hair soon?”

He looked surprised. Of course. Because she was so smooth. “No? I had it tended to quite recently, actually. Why do you ask?”

“No reason! Just…it looks really nice tonight.” Blight it.

He raised an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

“You should let it curl more. I love it when you wake up and it’s all sprung loose.”

“My hair is not curly. It’s not.”

“Right, of course. Sorry.” She grinned.

They ate a moment in silence before Ainsley looked up, pensive.

“Cullen?”

“Mmm?”

“You…when you talk about your family, you always seem so fond, like you were happy there. But you left them so young and never looked back. I wondered…ah…how you felt about…family. Now, I mean. Now that you’re not in the Order any more.”

He considered her from under lowered eyelids.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I take your meaning. Do you mean relations with my siblings, or…? I don’t…I hadn’t really thought beyond defeating Corypheus, as you know.”

“Oh.” She started in on a chicken thigh and tried to look nonchalant.

“I suppose you’ll still be the Inquisitor, but I don’t know what that will mean. I hope it means I can still be by your side.”

“If it doesn’t, then the world will have to fend without me, because I”—she swallowed and sucked air—“I won’t want to be parted from you. Ever again.”

Utensils clattered, abandoned, on Cullen’s plate as he came around the table to kneel next to her.

“You make me happier than I knew I could be. I don’t ever want to give that up either, if you’ll have me. I don’t deserve you.”

“You really do, you know.”

…………………….

Later, sleepless, she looked down at Cullen as he slept in the moonlight. Furtively, she ruffled her fingers through his hair. It really was short. She couldn’t help feeling that anything she cut would be immediately missed. Absently, she stroked the pale hairs on his chest, running her hand through the down on his stomach to the thickening curls above…hmmmmm. No. No.

And yet…surely hair was hair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband used to say that his hair wasn't curly. I like to imagine that Cullen styles his hair because he doesn't want it to be curly, so he plasters it back.
> 
> As for the rest....yeah, I have no explanation.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian met her in the Undercroft.

“You called?”

“I, uhhh…Well, here’s my hair”—she held out a folded packet of paper—“And. Ahhhh. Here’s Cullen’s.”

“Well done!” Dagna was trotting over as Dorian popped the little blob of beeswax she’s sealed the envelopes with. He peered into the first. “Yes, that’s plenty of yours. Now let’s see…”

“Ah. This. Ah.”

Ainsley shuffled awkwardly.

“I couldn’t possibly…no. No.”

Dagna slipped the envelope from his loose fingers. “What’s the problem, then?” She peered in for a moment, and then giggled. “Well, it is the Commander’s hair, or at least, I’ll take the Inquisitor’s word for it. I don’t see a problem.”

“This…Ainsley, this is absurd.”

“Oh, now, don’t tell me you’re suddenly having scruples about a handsome man’s short and curlies? Look, I’m sorry! He just got a haircut. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You can use gloves, Master Pavus. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I think it’s romantic!” Dagna’s smile was always vaguely frightening in its relentless enthusiasm.

Dorian glowered impartially at the two women, and finally took the envelope back between two fastidious fingertips.

“Festis bei umo canavarum. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Ainsley, laughing, kissed each of them on the cheek, and dashed out to her next appointment.

………………..

Mercifully, Solas had been right, and her stomach had largely settled. Occasionally strong smells would prove almost unbearable and she’d have to either bear it or make her excuses, and at night unaccustomed aches sometimes made sleep elusive, but for the most part she felt as fit as ever. It made it easy to ignore the whole issue, and she was happy to do so. It was a pleasant enough couple of days—some time with Your Trainer, as she always thought of the woman, was overdue, the tea was horrid but the cheese tarts were divine, and once she even got up early enough to spend some time watching Cullen spar.

Maker, but the man was a work of art. He used a small center-grip shield, and somehow despite its size it seemed always to be there before any blow, held not as a static barrier near to the body, but away from his body, controlling the space around his opponent’s sword, frustrating every move. It was little enough like the more defensive stances of Blackwall and Cassandra, and she could have watched it all day.

On the morning of the fifth day her crew gathered in the courtyard, Leliana on hand to mark their maps with the latest information, Cullen to say goodbye. Dorian was the last to arrive—hardly unusual—but he trotted up with a broad smile on his face this morning, and that was not usual. She wasn’t going to hold her breath for the day when Dorian learned to enjoy mornings or prolonged travel, but she knew he was even pissier if she left him behind.

“We’ve done it! Here they are…impeccable timing, as well, if I say so myself.” He held out his hand, in which were cradled two simple ivory discs, each traced with a compound rune and bound in a silvery metal to which was attached a fine chain. They were bathed in a gentle silver glow. She gasped, reaching out a finger to stroke one. “It’s warm!”

“Yes. Dagna thinks that we were imprecise somewhere and it’s a slight magic leak. Or the original description simply failed to mention the phenomenon. Personally, I think your wholly inappropriate idea of enchanting materials caused it. There’s nothing to indicate that it won’t work correctly, though.”

“They’re lovely, Dorian. Should we…should we give his to him now?”

“What better time?”

“Right. Of course. Dorian, why am I so nervous?”

“Because you are ridiculous. Come along.”

They approached Cullen together. At the last minute Ainsley remembered herself and snatched the amulets out of Dorian’s hand, to a whispered “hopeless” from him. Cullen turned to her with a smile.

“My love. Master Pavus. Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Maker’s breath I’m bad at this. No, it’s…Dorian came across…I…we…”

“Oh for the love of fine wine. Let me, fool. In my reading not long ago, I encountered a spell I had not previously heard of, and which I thought might interest you and the Inquisitor. I brought it to her attention, and as she agreed, Dagna and I proceeded with the experiment. Just this morning our plan has reached fruition, and so Mistress Trevelyan has something to give you before she leaves.”

After a moment’s silence, he nudged Ainsley heavily.

“Oh!” She held out her hand and unfurled it to reveal the two amulets resting there.

Dorian plucked one of them out of her hand and offered it to the commander, who took it hesitantly, turning it over in his hand. “You wear this one, and she wears that one. So long as the owner of the other amulet remains alive, your amulet will continue to glow. It works both ways of course. Should the unthinkable occur, the glow will fade and the ivory will blacken. But naturally, I will be with her, so that will not happen.”

“So now you won’t have to worry, love. You’ll only need to look at the amulet and know that I’m fine.”

A slow smile blossomed over the Commander’s face. He concentrated a moment on the fine clasp, and, with deliberate care, put the amulet on.

“Thank you. Thank you both very much. And thank you, Master Pavus, for your capable defense of my…the Inquisitor. It, and this, is a great comfort, I assure you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I wrote fluff that is simultaneously also ridiculous and maybe a bit gross? Welp, I guess that does fit the "realistic pregnancy" motif because being pregnant is certainly all of those things.
> 
> Also, Dagna and Dorian Science!bros is very important to me.
> 
> Also also I headcanon that Cullen fights sword and buckler style because if you look at screencaps of him fighting, half the time you can't even see his shield. So either he's a big fat hypocrite yelling at people to keep their shields up or he fights as described.


	5. Chapter 5

The trip to the Dales went as smoothly as Ainsley had said it would, which came as a welcome surprise. Standing over the last of the corpse pits, Ainsley watched it burn and thought of all the death she’d seen in the last year. Sometimes it felt incredible that there was anyone left to continue the struggle. And yet, as she could attest, humanity made new life even in such terrible times, and beautiful things blossomed and grew in the midst of such wanton violence.

Retreating from the stench, Ainsley tried to picture herself holding an infant—a tiny red creature like the one she had seen in Fairbanks’ refugee camp, mewling weakly until its mother put it to suck. The picture would not come into focus—she just couldn’t see it. Then the image slid sideways and suddenly it was Cullen, arms out to catch a fat-cheeked toddler, face unshadowed by worry or withdrawal, laughing as the imp stumbled and caught itself.

Varric came up beside her and clapped her gently on the back. “Hang in there, Sandy. They’re gone to the Maker now, and you’ve freed their bodies from those bastards for good and all. But cry if you need to. Don’t get hard on us.”

Bewildered, Ainsley touched her face, and her hand came away wet with sooty tears.

……………….

The morning after they presented Fairbanks with proof of his ancestry and turned towards Skyhold, Ainsley found that she could no longer tie the laces of her breeches. When Solas lifted the tent flap, prepared to reprove her for tardiness, he found her snot-nosed and shaking, holding the broken ends of her lacing thong. He sighed and drew the tent flap shut behind him, sitting down next to the Inquisitor. She promptly flung her arms around him and, after a moment’s hesitation, he put an arm around her shoulders.

“My pants don’t fit.”

“We will find you a longer cord. It needs only a moment.”

“I show.”

“It is not yet evident in your armor. There is time.”

“Enough time?”

“No. Likely not.”

“I feel so stupid. How will I face up to everyone?” 

“With the same strength and warmth that has gotten you this far.”

“How will I be a mother? Girls in Circles don’t dream of motherhood. I’m thirty and I’ve never held a baby. I have no idea.”

“Nor do I. But nobody knew how to be the Inquisitor, either, and look at what you have accomplished.”

Ainsley sniffed loudly.

“Give me the pieces. I will return soon with a new cord.”

…………………

 

This time the return to Skyhold was marked, for Ainsley, most by the absence of the Commander when they rode in. In the stables, she started to unsaddle her horse with fingers made graceless by hurry, when a broad hand laid over hers.

Blackwall smiled at her. “I’ve got this. Go, lass.”

She squeezed his arm in thanks and ran for the stairs up to the ramparts. A little ways out, she stopped a patrolling soldier. “Is the Commander in?”

“All day, Your Worship.”

“Oh dear. Thank you.” She ran on.

Outside Cullen’s office, she stood a moment to compose herself before opening the door. Cullen turned and rose immediately, but she took in the darkness under his eyes, the slight flush of sweat, the way he leaned heavily on the desk as he rose. She came to him and set one foot behind the other before bracing her shoulder against his chest so that they could lean together.

“Oh, love. Has it been bad?”

“Only today. I’m so sorry I did not meet you coming in.”

“I know you wanted to. I’m here now. Sit, love.”

He sat, heavily, and sighed. “I wish you weren’t seeing me like this. You deserve more.”

Ainsley made an angry noise. “You wish I never saw just how strong you are, how brave you are? How much you’ve suffered and continue to suffer to do the right thing? I don’t. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“You don’t know. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve thought, I’ve allowed.”

“We’ve been over this. I know Templars. I know them as a mage. I know the stories, I know about Kirkwall, about Kinloch Hold. And now I know you. The you that is here, that is now. And I love you. Not because I’m stupid and blind. Because I see you and know you.”

He let his head sink onto her chest, and she held him there, fingers kneading the tension out of the back of his neck.

“I hope there’s no crime so great that we can’t turn from it and go on to make a worthwhile life, love, but your life is still worth everything to me, whatever you wish you had done differently.”

……………….

As she held him that night in the loft above his office, she hated herself a little for the relief she felt that he was not well enough to run his hands over her body or see the gentle swell where once had been flat planes. She had to tell. She had to. She couldn’t.


	6. Chapter 6

Two days later, Ainsley swung by the stables to collect Blackwall for a game of Diamondback in the tavern and found nothing but a note.

When she came back to the tavern, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Dorian, Varric, and Bull looked up at her with matching worried expressions. “What’s up, Sandy?” Ainsley held the note out and Varric took it, glancing over it quickly before handing it to Dorian. Bull leaned over Dorian’s shoulder to get a faster look.

“I don’t understand. He was…he was proud to be here with us. Why would he go? Where?”

Iron Bull looked up from the note. “I think we need to find us a Nightingale doubletime.”

Hurried consultation with Leliana and a quick sweep of the castle and Blackwall’s quarters turned up no Blackwall, but one crumpled dispatch, evidently pilfered from Leliana’s reports, regarding an upcoming execution in Val Royeaux. Leliana’s eyes went hard at this evidence of subterfuge, but Ainsley was frantically worried for her friend.

“We’re going. We’re going to Val Royeaux. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m going to find out.”

“Inquisitor, your loyalty does you credit, but we don’t know if Blackwall went to Val Royeaux and we don’t know his situation. There are many pressing matters here for you to attend.”

“Bullshit. Do you see any rifts? I don’t. You hired me to seal rifts. We’re still trying to track Corypheus, but meanwhile the other thing I do is protect people. And if Blackwall needs me, I’m going to be there.”

“Very well, Your Worship, but understand that without further knowledge of a potentially volatile situation, we would be unwise to bring attention to the Inquisition’s involvement.”

“Alright, fine. The Inquisition isn’t involved. I am.”

………………..

Val Royeaux held few fond memories for Ainsley, but the crushing cold that closed around her heart when Blackwall…no, Thom Rainier…walked up onto the gibbet and spoke would have tainted any that she had. Somehow, despite it all, Ainsley was fundamentally a trusting soul. She knew him. Loved him, dearly, as a friend and companion on the long road, joking around the fire, always there between her and the enemy, never faltering. She could not reconcile the man she had known with the haunted, broken man behind the bars as she shouted, pleaded, cried and raged by turns in the oppressive, humid darkness of the prison. After, she cried into Cullen’s furs as he held her and stared down the hall, jaw locked.

………………..

She drew her pain over Blackwall around her like a cloak, hiding inside it, hiding her growing womb, hiding her own guilt, her own threadbare lie. She saw the worried looks of her friends, of her lover, and turned away from them, throwing herself into her work to escape their kind concern. Through it all, Ainsley had sustained herself by knowing when to reach out and how to take what was freely given, how to love and be loved, but now the lie stood between her and the world and she didn’t know how to end it. For two nights she worked at her desk into the wee hours as Cullen waited in the bed alone before finally giving up and falling asleep. The third night he did not come to her room, and she did not go to him. It took little effort for two such busy people to avoid each other.

By the time Blackwall arrived at Skyhold and was brought for judgement, Cullen’s pained, bewildered eyes from across the hall felt like a knife in her gut. She reached for the amulet at her neck, and drew reassurance from its warmth as she had so many times in the past weeks. He saw the gesture, and something unreadable flickered across his face.

She hated those cells beneath her castle. Hated their necessity and their ugliness and their cruelty. She had never left anyone there any longer than she could help, and though she did not know what she was going to say, she wasn’t going to start with Blackwall. 

She hated the spiky throne she had been given as well, but she did not change it. She should hate it, she thought, and should hate sitting in it. 

Watching him brought into the hall in chains, dragging between two guards, felt like poison in her veins. She looked around at the full hall, and all of her friends, at Solas, head high, poised and waiting, at Cullen, face blank and shoulders straight, and at last at Blackwall. They stared at each other for a long moment, before she looked away. Down to her hands twined in her lap, down to the deliberately loose jacket concealing her shape, her own lie. And then she took a deep breath and began to speak.

“I have been a coward, before. In a way, I have been a coward all my life. While the world fell apart around me, I huddled in my safe corner and tried not to draw any attention. While others died and were vilified and hunted fighting for my right to truly live, I was content simply to exist. If fate, or Andraste if you prefer, had not intervened, I think it quite likely that I would be doing so still. But I was called upon to stand, and I did. Where does the credit lie? I don’t know. But if I can help people, then I hope that is enough. I also…” She swallowed, hesitated, and then saw Cullen’s eyes on her and plunged ahead. “I also know what it is to tell a lie and let that lie define you and not know how to escape. But”—

She did not know how to go on. She did not know how to tell him to do what she could not. Lost, she scanned the crowd yet again—Dorian, Varric, Bull, disbelieving and slightly angry at her self-denegration. Masked nobles, wide-eyed peasants. Cassandra, lip drawn up in a tiny snarl. Again she found Solas, looking back at her. Waiting, watching. Perhaps…understanding? And somehow words began to come again.

“But going to your death is its own cowardice. Hiding is its own cowardice. Choosing to live, to face what you’ve done full on, and then do better and keep doing better, is the bravest thing I think anyone can do. To fix what you’ve broken, or at least to try and keep trying. Are you ready to do that, Thom Rainier? Are you ready to be the hero you have almost been for years now? You have always been brave enough to die, but I don’t want you to die. I want you to live and be true. Can you do that? Can you be my sword and shield again?”

Blackwall—Rainier—was silent for a long time. When he breathed in, it shuddered and hitched into his chest. 

“If your ladyship will have me, I think I can.”

The hand around her heart loosened and she breathed a freer breath. She would tell. She would tell Cullen and face what followed.

“Then be free. And let everyone go from here and say that though I am just as mortal, just as foolish as any of you, if I must judge, I will strive to judge hearts and not crimes. I did not know Thom Rainier years ago. Perhaps then he deserved to hang. I know him now, and I judge that he is more good to the world alive and free. It is done.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter with which to torture you a little

She tried to go straight to Cullen when court was ended, but it seemed like everyone in Skyhold had turned out for the judgment of Thom Rainier. People seethed around her, bowing, saying things she could hardly hear, much less understand. As always, some only reached out, eager to touch her, to touch the Herald. The more human she tried to appear, the more they seemed to revere her. By the time she got to the rear of the hall, he was gone, and Josephine was somehow at her elbow, eager to discuss damage control.

By dusk, when she finally stood outside her Commander’s door, a great deal of her earlier lightness had bled away. All she had left was a tight conviction that whatever the consequences, they would come soon anyway and she would rather meet them with courage than continue running until the lie brought her down. She couldn’t help standing there still, though. What if…what if…what if the lie broke the precious trust between them? He would never leave, not and turn from a child, but the thought of being trapped in the shell of a relationship with a man who could not trust her…she gasped and rubbed her chest. Or what if it was one stress too many and the next time she went out to fight—and she would—he was left here with the memory of that horrid box and it was finally too much, too easy to requisition a little blue vial? What if…and she knew it could happen, had known all along…she left him alone after all, went where he could not follow and took his child with her?

Many times since the Conclave she had been brave enough to die. She would be brave enough to live and be true. She opened the door.

He glanced up, and rose immediately when he saw her there, but hesitated. She winced to see it, but squared her shoulders and wasted no time.

“I—I’m sorry. So sorry. Let’s start there. I shut you out, I know that. It was me, not you. Please don’t think it was you.”

His jaw worked for a moment, but he said nothing. She bowed her head, unable to look at him.

“It…wasn’t just about Blackwall, either. There’s something else. But…you need to know, and I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you but it’s killing me to hold you away and I never want to do it again.”

“Ainsley…”

“And I’ll understand if you want me to go for…for a while, or if you want to yell, or really I mean, oh, I don’t know. The thing is, I’m…”

She stopped and clasped her hands tightly together to still their trembling.

“I’m”—

And the door behind her flew open, and a soldier burst through. “Commander! You’re needed right away!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand now I'm officially writing high fantasy soap opera. My life is complete.


	8. Chapter 8

“Oh! Your Worship, Commander, there’s a fight down at the Herald’s Rest and it’s…well, it’s turning into a bit of a riot, actually.”

“What?” Cullen’s eyes darted between Ainsley and the frightened runner, his brows pulled tight.

Ainsley wasn’t sure whether she was incredibly frustrated or enormously relieved.

“Later, Cullen. It can wait.” She turned for the door, knowing that he would be right behind. “Explain yourself, soldier.” As he brushed past, she caught him for just a moment, and he looked down at her, eyes burning.

“I love you, Cullen. Just—I love you.”

He kissed her once, quickly, fiercely, and then they were after the messenger.

…………………

The soldier had actually been drinking in the bar when some of the more veteran Orlesian troops had taken strong exception to the Inquisitor’s pardoning of the infamous Thom Rainier, and had said so more loudly with each passing pint, until a group of Inquisition troops, mainly Ferelden, had objected—quite forcefully. Relationships between Orlesians and Fereldens in the castle were always a bit tenuous, and the spark had taken flame. At that point, the Iron Bull had grabbed the soldier and sent him up to Cullen. 

The whole mess had since rolled out into the courtyard and headed for the stables, accumulating as it went, only to find that Bull and the Chargers had anticipated them and were barring their way. Bull’s hardened lot were more than any of the Orlesians were anxious to tackle yet, though Ainsley had just the right angle to see a bottle shatter against Grim’s chest. Grim did not, as far as she could tell, flinch or deign to change expression, but she did not miss the tight grip Stitches had on Skinner’s arm. For now the whole brawling, growing mass seemed to be content to bash each other indiscriminately, but Ainsley thought she saw the flash of a knife. Several on-duty soldiers hovered around, unsure of what to do.

Cullen waded in without hesitation, bellowing orders and shoving people apart. He took a hard cross to the jaw from someone and came up looking murderous, but his shouts were completely inaudible from where she stood. Ainsley did the fastest thing she could think of. She threw a barrier up, plowed into the mob a few feet, and let out a shockwave that leveled the closest score of soldiers.

In the ensuing shocked silence, Cullen was the first to recover.

“Enough! Enough! Is this the Inquisition? Is this how we will defeat Corypheus? By brawling over a crime years gone! The Inquisitor has spoken! It is for us to obey!”

A man in Orlesian uniform stepped into Cullen’s space defiantly. “Yes, and maybe I would follow her around like a Fereldan dog, too, if I was between her legs, Comm”—

It was almost casual, the way Cullen backhanded the man, and yet he toppled backwards and stayed down.

Cullen gestured to one of the on-duty soldiers who was hovering nearby. “Lock that one up, for starters. He’ll get lonely and ask for friends soon enough. Alright—anyone who shares this man’s sentiments is welcome to express them to me now. Would anyone else rather roll in the dirt fighting over imagined slights and forgotten hurts than save the world? Would anyone else like to comment on the Inquisitor’s private life in front of her? What, no one? Then SIT. DOWN.”

Everyone sat.

After that began the long process of hauling out the wounded, pulling people to clean up the tavern, and sniffing out the instigators. A few figures in the crowd were horribly limp, and Ainsley felt coldly sick. She found a barrel to perch on, face in hands, utterly drained by the day’s emotions. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Krem, phlegmatic as always.

“This is going to take a bit, Your Worship. Don’t see as you really need to stay up. He’s got it.”

Ainsley dug up a weak smile. “Thank you, Krem. You’re right, as always.”

And she climbed to her tower room, pulled the covers over her head, said, “Well, fuck,” and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shortish chapter. Trying to stay properly ahead of myself, and they made me be all familial today.


	9. Chapter 9

The morning began early with urgent pounding on the door.

In the War Room, servants with tea and runners with notes generated a feeling of urgency and chaos. Cullen’s eyes were darkened with exhaustion but, Ainsley noted gratefully, his hands were steady. Leliana, whom Ainsley privately suspected did not actually sleep, had received confirmation from one of her scout teams—at last they had a solid target. Corypheus was drawing his troops towards some point in the Arbor Wilds. 

“The where? Sorry. What’s in the…Arbor Wilds, then?”

Leliana answered the question. “Corypheus’ people have been ransacking elven ruins since Haven. My scouts report rumors of more such in the Wilds.”

“So help me Andraste, if it’s more shards, I might just let Corypheus have them.”

“I believe he seeks a much more powerful tool than shards.” Ainsley turned in surprise as the empress’s former arcane advisor, Morrigan, stepped up to the table. “Fortunately, I can shed some light.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I can do more than that. I can show you.” With that, Morrigan gestured imperiously and turned to walk from the room. Ainsley looked around at the rest of the room.

“What, now? We’re sort of…busy…”

“I assure you, you will wish to see this.”

Ainsley shrugged and jerked her head at the other advisors, and the four of them followed the witch through the garden and into a disused room dominated by a large mirrorlike object.

“This is an Eluvian. An elven artifact from a time long before their empire was lost to human greed. I restored this one at great cost, but another lies within the Arbor Wilds. That is what Corypheus seeks.”

“Oh? And how, pray tell, did you know this? And if you knew it why have you not shared that information before this?” Leliana’s eyes flashed.

“Simple. I did not know until you spoke this morning. Years past, I found legends of an elven temple within the Arbor Wilds, untouched. It proved too dangerous for me to approach, and thus I turned elsewhere to find my prize. If Corypheus has turned southward, he could succeed where I failed. The Eluvian would be his.”

“But what does it do?” Cullen contemplated the strange surface of the item with unconcealed distrust.

Morrigan gestured fluidly at the Eluvian, and the surface of the mirror lit up in shifting shades of blue and white.

“A more appropriate question would be--where does it lead.” With that, Morrigan turned and calmly walked straight into the mirror, disappearing.

Ainsley and the three advisors eyed each other.

“Well, you know I’m going, because it’s crazy and it’s magic.” Ainsley grinned the grin that stretched her face before a promising fight. Cullen sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I’ll…just stay here then, shall I?” Josephine stepped back and smiled tightly. Ainsley shrugged and walked forward, Leliana and Cullen following.

……………………

The other side of the mirror was definitely not in Skyhold, nor any other place Ainsley had ever seen. Grey mists swirled around her feet, occasionally shot through with wisps of Veilfire green. The ground spread out around them flat and featureless until earth and sky faded into the grey, ruined buildings hulking out of the mist. And as far as she could see were the strange sculpted trees she associated with Elvhen ruins and more, so many more, of the mirrors.

“Whoah,” she breathed. Behind her, she heard a hushed, “Maker’s breath” from Cullen

“If this place once had a name, it has long been lost. I call it the Crossroads—a place where all Eluvians join, wherever they might be.”

“Oh, Maker, Solas has GOT to see this! This is Elvhen, I know these tree things.” Ainsley darted forward, running around to peer at the back of another Eluvian. “Do these…do these all go places?”

“Once, they did. The ancient elves left no roads, only ruins hidden in far-flung corners. This, I presume, is how they traveled between them.”

“So you brought a door to we know not how many places and set it in the heart of Skyhold and told me nothing of it?” Cullen’s voice was a warning, but Morrigan took no heed.

“It is no concern. As you can see, many of these are dark—broken, corrupt, or unusable. As for the rest, a few can be opened from this side, but only a few, and only if one holds the key.”

Leliana’s face was rapt as she looked around. “Could we use these ourselves? That might provide an incredible advantage. Think of the possibilities!”

“Is this the Fade? It’s different.” Ainsley considered a moment, and added, “Thank the Maker.”

“The Fade! Maker.” Leather creaked as Cullen clenched his hands, evidently preparing to deck any demons that might appear.

Morrigan snorted slightly. “No, though it is close to the Fade. I believe this place itself to have been constructed by the ancient elves somehow.”

Ainsley stared around herself in awe, and then half-whispered “’Elven Glory!’” and giggled like a schoolgirl.

Cullen’s tense tones and Morrigan’s calm responses faded behind her as Ainsley moved through the strange landscape, staring avidly around her. She leaned over to look more closely at the carving along the base of a mirror, reaching out to touch it.

“Don’t…! That is, I would feel more comfortable if you didn’t touch anything. You terrify me, love. What are you doing?” 

Ainsley smiled up at Cullen, who had come up beside her. “I’m taking notes for Solas. Maker, I wish he was here. If I’d known…”

Pain flashed across Cullen’s face, but he turned back to Morrigan abruptly, before she could be sure of what she’d seen.

“So if there is an Eluvian in this temple, and Corypheus gains possession of it…he could come here? What purpose would that serve?”

“This is not the Fade, but it is very close. Someone with enough power could tear down the ancient barriers…”

“Ohhhh…shit. And enter the Fade in person. I see,” said Ainsley.

“Then we’ve no time to lose. We must march on the Arbor Wilds immediately.” Cullen turned back to the Eluvian from which they had come.

“He has too great a start on us,” replied Leliana. “Our main army will never get there ahead of him. We must harry him with my scouts.”

“Surely the risk”—but Cullen cut himself short as Leliana followed Morrigan through the mirror. Ainsley was hurrying forward when a hand on her arm brought her abruptly around.

She had not imagined the pain in his face; it was raw and naked now. 

“It’s Solas, isn’t it?” 

She blinked.

“I’m sorry, what? Solas what?”

Cullen’s mouth contorted for a moment before control reasserted itself. “You were going to tell me. Sharing a tent, fighting together, mages together…It’s…you…and Solas. I should have seen”-- 

He cut off in the face of a burst of incredulous laughter.

“Oh Maker! No. No. Solas is my friend. We are not…” She had to control a fresh outbreak of laughter. “Maker, I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny to you. I can…oh, ouch, yes, I can see how…but no. Solas is my beloved friend, but…it’s you I want. Only you. That’s not…”

Someone cleared their throat nearby, and they both looked over to see Leliana’s head and chest projecting eerily from the Eluvian.

“Not. The time.”

Cullen squeezed her arm almost bruisingly, but turned and went through the Eluvian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, in-game dialogue. :-P I had the worst time getting this bit the way I wanted it, and really haven't, but I figured better to keep moving on to later good bits (that I've already written) than to permanently hang up here.


	10. Chapter 10

Back at the War Table, things began to move quickly. Ainsley felt less like the leader of a powerful pan-national organization and more like a leaf in spring flood, lost amid the swirl of runners and marshals and adjutants, maps and missives and incomprehensible troop movement charts.

It was agreed by all that the situation brooked no delay. If Morrigan was right, then failure in the Arbor Wilds was not an option. While none of them, least of all Cullen, truly trusted the woman, neither was anyone willing to gamble on her being wrong.

Insofar as Ainsley understood the plan, it seemed to be this: Cullen would leave that very afternoon with as many of the Chevaliers and elite among the Inquisition troops as could be mounted at short notice and only as many supplies as the horses themselves could carry, in an effort to get someone there as soon as possible. The bulk of the forces as well as proper supply wagons would follow posthaste under the competent command of Marshal Morgan. In the meantime, messages were winging out at an enormous rate to bring those of Leliana’s agents who were in range into position to harry and slow Corypheus’ forces and get the lay of the land. Ser Colombe scrambled orders to any Orlesian units near the Wilds to rendezvous with the Inquisition scouts for cautious raids and delaying actions.

Ainsley’s primary responsibility, as usual, was the assignment of her own inner circle. This was a task she felt comfortable with—understanding her friends, their strengths and weaknesses, was one of the things she felt genuinely good at. Vivienne she put at the head of a small contingent of mages to support Cullen’s troops. Cassandra and Sera she sent as well, to lend their expertise in fighting, in their disparate ways, against Red Templars. Bull, Varric, Blackwall, Solas, and Dorian had become a smooth team together with her over the months, each knowing their role in the fight, and she held these back with her. They were to wait until a relatively clear path could be carved through to the ruins in question. Cassandra in particular objected strenuously to Blackwall’s inclusion, but Ainsley was insistent. This was the mighty offensive-defensive battering ram that had carried her thus far and she wasn’t going to start switching things up now. He had said he was hers yet, and she would take him at his word.

Morrigan would be going with her team, which made her slightly uncomfortable. She had no reason to believe that the woman meant her or the Inquisition any harm, but neither was she confident that their goals were as aligned as she might have liked.

Incredibly, Cullen’s troops were already staging for departure in the valley by midafternoon, working on plans laid out by the Commander and his staff for just such a time. There had not been a moment since the stolen conversation in the Eluvian when either of them was anything but completely surrounded by other people. Now she milled with the others there to say goodbye to friends and loved ones, to give last minute kisses or, as in Leliana’s case, last minute instructions.

Cullen pulled her to him, and she nestled into the cocoon of him, the smell of him—lovingly polished and greased metal, well-worn leather, sweat, and the herbal scent of his pomade. He tipped her chin up and looked at her earnestly, as if searching for answers.

“Time is so rarely on our side, is it?”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “I don’t know. You and time have had a stranger relationship than most. At the moment, though, I could wish for more. Can you just”—he glanced around at the hubbub—“tell me?”

She had prepared for this moment.

“After the battle, love. It’s nothing. I’m sorry I worried you. Stay well, stay alive, and we’ll talk after the battle.”

Now was definitely, definitely not the time for what she had to say. Better to give him uncertainty than knowing.

“Nothing. Right.”

“A small thing. Later. Just…” she slipped her hand to his neck to indicate the amulet. “Hold onto this, and I’ll hold onto these”—the twin chains of her amulet and his coin—“and I’ll tell you after.”

He sighed, cupping her jaw, and leaned down until their foreheads rested together. “After. Alright.”

“Be safe, Cullen.”

“I? I have an army by my side.”

She laughed at the deflection. “And I have Dagna. Who could stand against me with her in my pocket?” She reached down and patted the rune they both knew rested at her belt. “Don’t worry. This’ll be good.”

……………………

Ten days later, singed, terrified, and sprawled across the tiles in the cavernous entrance to the Temple of Mythal, she felt less confident.

The Temple of Mythal was like nothing she’d ever seen. Even in the terror of Corypheus on their heels, the constant worry of troops fighting and dying out in the forest, she could not help being wrapped in the awe of it. She moved through the antechamber with her eyes everywhere, taking no notice when she stumbled over the occasional tuft of greenery or turned tile. When Morrigan suggested following the ancient petitioner’s path rather than the more direct pursuit of her quarry, she first bridled, thinking of the troops, of Corypheus outside, presumably still seeking entrance by any means. And apparently unkillable, Andraste help them. But Solas agreed, and Solas she trusted, and so she stumbled through the glowing paths, cursing more loudly with each misstep, until at last the door opened on the inner temple.

Then there was the wonder, the impossibility of Abelas and the sentinels, and the bile rose in her throat to think that each of the elven corpses in their path was a life an eon in the living, ended by their coming and their war. Oh, and it was worse, so much worse, as she began to really understand that their coming meant an end to all of this, an end to magics inconceivably ancient. And she had been right to reserve judgment on Morrigan, as well, as it turned out. But there was no help for it now, and so the party, less Morrigan, followed their frail, gnomic guide through rooms still blazing with the glory of a dead world.

By the time they caught up with Samson and the remains of his templars, surrounded by the once-graceful bodies of elvhen sentinels, Ainsley felt ready to tear him apart with her own hands.

“Inquisitor.” Samson sneered at her across the room. “You and those elf-things don’t know when to stop.”

“To stop? What, and roll over, let you destroy everything that’s good in the world? Pass.”

Samson’s harsh laughter grated in her ears. “Well, you should have quit sooner. Corypheus chose me twice, first as his general, and now as”—

“Yes, yes, you’re a very special snowflake. Boys, I’m so tired. Can we kill them now and go home?”

Iron Bull grunted an affirmative, but Samson only laughed. “I have been prepared well to serve as Corypheus’ Vessel. This armor makes me a living fortress, mind and body. I will bring Corypheus the Well’s power and your head, all at once.”

Samson stepped forward and suddenly his entire body rippled and shimmered with the sickening energy of red lyrium.

“This is the strength the Chantry tried to bind. But it’s a new world, Inquisitor, with a new god. So, Inquisitor, how will this go?”

Ainsley slipped her hand into a pouch and came out with the culmination of Dagna’s labors. She felt the battle-grin stretch her face as she lifted it before her in two hands.

“Badly, for you.” And she activated the rune.

Minutes later, panting and grimacing, all she could think was that she would’ve hated to see what Samson was like before the rune’s intervention, because the man was still a fortress, and fast—so heinously fast. His rage was all for one person—her. Again and again, either Blackwall or Iron Bull were barely there in front of her as she played a running game, fighting to keep a step ahead of her roaring pursuer. 

Ainsley hadn’t been joking about being tired, not entirely. Her stamina was shot lately—even the march down had been draining. Now every breath burned in her lungs, as if she simply could not breathe deeply enough. Her fingertips were beginning to tingle. She turned to fire off another spell, and saw Iron Bull turn to one side to block a hulking Templar charging Dorian, saw Samson throw himself at Blackwall, tangling their swords together before simply heaving, flinging the bearded man back. Blackwall recovered immediately, but Samson was around him and charging. Ainsley backpedaled, staggered, cast a weak shield, but it wasn’t enough; she knew it wasn’t nearly enough.

She threw up an arm, uselessly, as Samson’s blade came down, but instead of the pain she expected she heard a grating clang of metal on metal, and glanced up to see the Red Templar general’s sword sliding sideways over the blade of Bull’s axe. And then, it was so fast—Samson twisted savagely and changed the direction of his force, and the pommel of his sword drove viciously into her stomach, throwing her backwards. She landed on her side, curled around herself, heaving for air.

At first it felt like dying. Dying didn’t seem so terrible a fate, really, if it meant an end to the tearing fire where there ought to be breath. She sucked air for long moments before she remembered that it was important for her to get up and fight. She rolled onto her knees and promptly threw up. Then firm hands were on her shoulders, raising her upright, and Varric was in front of her.

“Come on, Sandy, here. Drink up. But keep it down, will you? It’s the last potion.” She swallowed dutifully, and sagged against the supporting arms behind her. “He’s down, now. He’s down. It’s over. Too close for comfort, though. That arm going to be alright, Tiny?” 

Iron Bull—the comforting strength at her back—grunted. “This? Nothing. It’ll stop bleeding soon enough.” 

Ainsley felt the potion taking effect, bringing life back to her abused lungs. The world was just coming back into focus when she saw Solas’ eyes jerk to something behind her.

“Up. Get me up, Bull.” In his strong hands she rose and turned to see Abelas dashing up a staircase that had not been there minutes before, a familiar black bird winging above him. Everyone hastened to run after. Ainsley was the last to arrive at the top, clutching her gut against a stabbing pain the potion seemed not to have touched, and when she got there, heated words were already flying between Morrigan and Abelas. Unslinging her staff, she leaned against it heavily.

“Well, at least there is an Eluvian.” She let herself sag for a moment and failed completely to pay attention to the discussion around her. Silence made her look up to find that everyone was staring at her.

“Right.” She shifted her weight and suppressed a small scream of pain when something pulled in her abdomen. “I’m sure Corypheus hasn’t given up. He’s still coming. He wants the Well. He must not have it. I think we’re all in agreement to that point?” Her eyes went to Abelas.

“You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you that I cannot deny, despite your companion here. Is that your wish? To partake of the Vir’abelasan as best you can, to fight your enemy?”

“I didn’t come for the Well. I didn’t even know about it. Today has been a day of wonders and it seems that my role in them is to see them destroyed.” She stopped to gather a little more energy. “My wish would be to leave you in peace. I think we all know I won’t be getting that, though. You are the Well’s guardian, if I understand correctly. To destroy it or turn it over to us…I would rather it be your choice.”

“The Vir’abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. Brave it if you must, but know you this—you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

“Bound? To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?”

“Morrigan…” Ainsley tried to put the bite of command in her tone, but it came out thin and exhausted. She hurt so Maker-damned much. When was this going to be over?

Abelas responded calmly enough. “Bound, as we are bound. The choice is yours.”

They were still talking…Maker, it was like the old days, lectures in the circle, a dull buzzing in the background, and she just couldn’t focus, couldn’t stay up much longer. Part of her knew that this was all terribly important, but it was a distant part.

“Sandy?” Varric was studying her. “You don’t look so hot.”

“Never said I was.” She giggled, and then squelched it, looking around. When had Abelas gone? Maker, but she was lousing this up. The Well was still there, calm and untouched. “So, I guess we’re doing this?”

“Who, Sandy? Who goes?”

“Muh. Not me.” She gestured vaguely, intending to encompass the rest of the group. “Anyone want to…nnnggg…wanna fight Morrigan for it?”

Clearly, no one did.

Morrigan drew herself up. “I am willing to pay the price the Well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service. Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

Ainsley held he tongue for a few moments, more to gather strength to speak than to reach a decision. She just…didn’t care any more. Too tired. Finally, she waved her hand toward the Well. “Go, then.”

Morrigan turned and hesitated only a moment before walking into the pool. She turned around once, watching the reflections play over her arms, and then crouched gracefully, immersing herself.

Suddenly, the waters of the Well exploded outwards in a wave that toppled Ainsley even as it left her dry. Her staff clattered away and she curled in fresh agony over her stomach. Voices rose and fell, and then someone shouted.

“Corypheus!”

“Quickly, through the Eluvian,” cried Morrigan. Someone put a hand under Ainsley’s arm, hauling her up and towards the mirror. Glancing back, she saw Corypheus’ unmistakable shape swooping towards them, and then the hand was holding her up as she stumbled over the Eluvian’s carved frame, and the temple was gone, replaced with the shocking silence of the Crossroads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the relative delay. I had just the worst time progressing the plot through in-game scenes. Bleurgh.


	11. Chapter 11

_(...and then the hand was hauling her up as she stumbled over the Eluvian’s carved frame, and the temple was gone, replaced with the shocking silence of the Crossroads.)_

……………………

Suddenly the scout’s report became nothing but background noise. Cullen pawed at his neck, cursing his gauntleted hands, trying to catch the fine chain of the amulet there. It wasn’t warm. The warmth had rested above his heart for weeks now, and its absence was stark. Why wasn’t it warm? He bit the tip of a glove, yanking the offending gauntlet off, and then found the chain with his fingertips and drew out the simple disc. It was still the same creamy ivory it had been when she gave it to him, but the gentle glow was gone along with the warmth. They had said it would go black if…if… 

Not black. Not glowing.

“What does it mean? Andraste preserve us, what does it mean?”

“Ser?”

“It’s not glowing! Maker, it’s not glowing! Don’t take her from me! I can’t…” He stared wordlessly at the amulet, frozen in time, mind paralyzed, he knew not for how long.

And then the glow sprang back up, the warmth touching his fingers, and he sucked air like a surfacing diver. He looked up to a ring of worried faces.

After a few more steadying breaths, he gathered himself. “The Inquisitor yet lives. Something has happened; I know not what, but she is alive.”

At that moment, Corypheus’ dragon rose above the trees, screaming challenge, and they all watched it turn north and speed away.

Cullen tugged his gauntlet back on and reached for the lion helm. “I want into that temple. Now.”

………………

Ainsley stepped out of the Eluvian and the rough texture of Skyhold stone dragged at her boot. Pain shot up her left side and she fell to her knees. Getting up seemed…seemed…yeah, she really didn’t want to get up.

“Inquisitor?” Morrigan, a few steps ahead.

“Shit! Her legs…look at her thighs. Where’s the blood coming from?” Bull sounded so distressed, she thought. Here she thought she had rather nice thighs these days. Lots of…exercise. It was hard to focus. She felt so very tired.

“Kaffas! A healer. I’ll run for a healer.” 

Cullen thought her thighs were nice. Blood? The floor was nice.

“No!” Solas’s voice cracked like a whip and Dorian’s feet stopped retreating. “A midwife. She needs a midwife.” And Solas’ arm was under her and she was being swept up neatly, like a toddler in its father’s arms. Strong elf. Nice. She giggled weakly at the collective intake of breath around her, at Bull’s explosive “Fuck!,” at the sound of Dorian retreating rapidly, streaming angry Tevene behind him.

“Ah. So that is the way of it,” said Morrigan. As Solas strode forward with the Inquisitor in his arms, Morrigan began issuing rapid-fire commands. “Blackwall, to the kitchens. Beef broth, calves foot jelly, liver, any sweets that might tempt her appetite. Iron Bull, water for washing up. I will heat it; you needn’t trouble yourself for that.”

As they passed through the garden at a near-run, Ainsley giggled at all the wide-eyed faces swinging crazily past, upside-down over Solas’ arm, and then cried out at the pain the laughter caused.

“Dwarf…stay with her. She trusts you.” So Varric clumped along behind, working hard to keep up with Solas’ driving pace on the tower stairs.

“It would seem you have the advantage of us, elf. I am curious to know why you alone were aware of her condition.”

Solas went momentarily rigid and Ainsley moaned in protest when he pulled something inside her. He glanced at her and relaxed deliberately before answering. “I think I have more control of myself than to get another man’s woman with child, human. It is the commander’s, of course. I knew because I am no career warrior or circle mage, and I know what it means when a woman turns pale at the smell of frying onions or excuses herself more mornings than not to retch behind a bush.”

“Then you may be of use.” 

Ainsley drifted, whimpered, struggled to focus, as Solas lowered her to her bed. She tried to cling, but he plucked her hands free and then she was floating anchorless on the bed. “Cold. Please, I’m cold.”

“She is in shock. Dwarf, the fur from the couch.” Slender hands began to remove her clothing. “Uhh, Sandy, you want me and Solas to leave?” Ainsley threw a hand in Varric’s direction, and he took it. “Stay.” “Of course, Sandy. Right here with you.” Solas lifted her gently and she had to let go of Varric’s hand so that Morrigan could pull her coat off. The pants hurt much worse, pulling as they did on that spot in the cradle of her pelvis, but once they were off, the three of them wrapped her up in furs and blankets and Morrigan heated them with an unexpectedly gentle hand.

Ainsley was finding it extremely difficult to track what was happening when the door banged open and light feet brought Leliana into view.

“What is the meaning of this? How are you even here? What in the Maker’s name—“ She broke off at the sight of the Inquisitor small and pale in the bed.

Morrigan spoke first. “We returned from the Temple of Mythal via the Eluvian I had believed to be there. During the battle, the Inquisitor received a serious blow, but most of us did not know until our return that she is…in a delicate condition and has sustained some degree of injury. She is bleeding from the womb. I do not at this time believe that she is in serious danger herself. She is in shock, but I am handling it. We do not as yet know the condition of the child. I am no expert. One has been sent for.”

Leliana took all this in quickly and then moved to the bed, and Varric stepped aside to give her access. She took Ainsley’s hand. “My dear Inquisitor, it distresses me greatly to see you in this state. Whatever is in my power to do, you need only ask. Now.” She stood and turned to encompass the room at large. “How long has this been going on and why was I not informed?”

Before anyone could respond, an enormous clatter on the stairs announced Iron Bull’s precipitous arrival with two enormous buckets of water. Taking in the scene at a glance, he set the buckets down and carefully sat down on the couch without comment.

Solas replied. “To your questions: she is roughly three months gone. I am the only other who knew. I saw the signs and confronted her. We agreed that secrecy was paramount, to avoid placing undue stress on the Inquisition. We agreed that it would be best if she continued to act as she already knows she must and did not cause everyone, most particularly Commander Rutherford, more worry than could be helped. We were aware that it was not a permanent solution, but I confess I am angry with myself for allowing this to happen.”

Blackwall was next, banging in with a tray that strained under its load of sweet buns and teapot and aspic and a pot of something swinging dangerously from his forearm. The tray was wordlessly handed off and Varric slipped quietly into the task of offering her food one morsel at a time. She took them automatically, and giggled as she imagined herself a baby bird. Blackwall looked deeply uncomfortable but retreated into a corner and stayed.

Leliana moved on to rapid-fire questions to the companions regarding events in the Arbor Wilds, and had covered most of the salient details by the time Dorian exploded into the room, still running, still swearing in Tevene, followed at a more dignified pace by an iron-haired woman carrying a large basket and with a bundle of cloths under one arm.

“I think I just shook half the residents of Skyhold by the shoulder hunting this woman down. Staring at me slack-jawed while I yelled and waved my arms about. Venhedis! How does she fare?”

“Well, that’s torn it, then,” mumbled Ainsley, still feeling a touch hysterical.

“Enough!” The midwife’s voice stiffened spines all ‘round the room. “What is this, then, a wrestling match, with bets to be shepherded? Out! Out! You and you”—she indicated the two women—“stay here. Men haven’t the stomach for what we do.”

Even Solas stayed not upon the order of his going, but departed with the rest of them. The room felt large and empty once they were gone, occupied as it was by three women she knew relatively little of and did not share the camaraderie of camp and battle with.

“Now then. I am Mistress Bagley, Your Holiness. Let’s see what we can see and do what we can do, and the will of the Maker be done. You”—she threw a stern look at Morrigan—“Assuming that staff is more than a decoration, start the fire and heat the water.” Morrigan went. “Sister Nightingale—I see someone with at least a modicum of sense has brought proper nourishment. See if she’ll eat. Build up the blood.” Flipping back the basket cover, she reached out a small flask and opened it. “Elfroot for regeneration, child. Drink up. You’re not healing because potions don’t work the same on the babe inside. The guardian—the afterbirth--filters them.”

Morrigan already had the room almost uncomfortably warm by the time she returned to the bed. Mistress Bagley gave a single quick nod of approval. “Alright, blankets off, child. Let’s clean you and see what we can learn.”

Ainsley was gently and efficiently stripped, lifted to put a clean cloth under her, swabbed off, and inspected. Somewhere in the process she started to shake and could not spare enough effort from stomping down the lid of the “not now” box to stop herself. Leliana abandoned her efforts to feed the Inquisitor and settled for stroking her sweat-soaked hair and singing quiet lullabyes.

Mistress Bagley moved next to slowly and systematically palpating Ainsley’s gently-rounding abdomen, moving with care over the angry purple bruise still covering the left half of her stomach. When she reached the bad spot, Ainsley hissed and scrambled backwards up the headboard a bit. “Well, then,” murmured the midwife, and continued her probing.

Leliana responded to a gentle knock on the door, and Ainsley could hear Josephine’s voice as the two spoke quietly. Ainsley kept her eyes fixed on the midwife, her shocky apathy eroding rapidly in the warm quiet.

“Well,” declared Mistress Bagley, sitting back. “The mother will do well enough, I think. The guardian, in the womb, is torn.”

The question flew out of the “not now” box and hit her throat with a force that tore tears from her eyes. “Will he be okay? It, I mean. Is it…” A sob stopped her throat, the last of the false calm swept away in a tidal wave of fear.

Mistress Bagley’s face softened with pity and she reached up to push a sticky lock of hair out of Ainsley’s eye. “I have not the means to know, child. The babe has not quickened, so it mayn’t tell us itself. If, in a fortnight’s time, the bleeding is well stopped and nothing more has come, we may begin to hope.”

“Oh. Oh. Oh, Cullen. Forgive me, love.” 

With which, Ainsley gave up the fight and collapsed in on herself. She did not hear Leliana return, did not hear the midwife’s quiet instructions to the others, did not hear when Morrigan and the midwife left. She heard only her own broken breathing as the tears streamed down, and down, and down.


	12. Chapter 12

The Red Templars fought just as fiercely without their leader as with, being, by this time, little more than rabid animals. Now, though, they lacked command and strategy and had already experienced heavy losses. Cullen’s unit sometimes came across clusters of dead around one or two elves in armor of an unfamiliar design, other times areas of widely scattered corpses showing clear evidence of combat magic. The latter brought a fierce smile of pride to his face.

One of the scouts slid up beside him. “Commander. The tunnel leading to the temple is just a few hundred yards to the south-east. I can lead you there.”

“Then do so.”

Before they reached the tunnel, though, they came across a small group of the strangely-armored elves, hooded and dangerous, blocking the path. 

Cullen stopped several yards away from the group, raising his hand to halt his soldiers. He had received several reports of these elves fighting against both Inquisition troops and the Red Templars nearer to the temple, and had heard further that they were formidable adversaries, but these had not as yet drawn their weapons.

“I am Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of the Inquisition’s military forces. I intend to enter this ruin in search of the Inquisitor and her companions. Do you bar my way?”

“I think you are not with the corrupted ones. The Inquisitor? You refer to the mage-woman who entered the temple to battle the corrupted ones.”

“I do.”

“She and her companions carried themselves with respect and honor. I will tell you, then. We no longer bar your way. We are sentinels no more, and what we have guarded is gone--destroyed. The woman you seek, however, is not within. She and her companions have gone through the Eluvian. It also is now destroyed. The creature who pursued them has departed.”

Cullen took a moment to digest this sudden influx of new information.

“Thank you. Might I know to whom I am speaking?”

“I am Abelas. We are—were—the sentinels of the Temple of Mythal.”

Something about the quiet dignity with which the elf carried himself, combined with the weight of what he had said, pulled at Cullen.

“I…regret that circumstances have found us at odds. Let there be no further enmity between us.”

Abelas inclined his head, and the elves passed them silently, vanishing into the forest.

Inside the temple, quick-moving scouts found beauty and death, Samson with his head nearly sheared off, an empty pool, and a broken Eluvian. This confirmed, Cullen turned on his heel and strode toward camp, and Skyhold beyond it, scouts and soldiers scrambling to match his pace.

…………………………..

When she woke, dull and listless, Varric was sitting next to the bed, crossed feet propped on a stool, a book in his hands. He glanced over when she stirred and let the book close over his finger.

“Hey there, Sandy.”

Ainsley looked at her hands and ran a thumb over a torn nail.

Varric tried again. “You gave us all a scare, there.” Another empty space she declined to fill. “Never took you and Curly for the secrets sorts.”

Varric almost missed the whisper of sound that came out. “He has secrets. This isn’t one of them.”

“He—well. Shit. He doesn’t know?”

Her silence stood for confirmation.

“Maker, Sandy. What for?”

She looked at him at last, her gaze flat and expressionless. “Is knowing going to make you feel better next time I have to fight Corypheus?”

“…No. Can’t say as it will.”

The constant wind sighed and moaned against the balcony doors. At last, Varric reopened his book.

“Mind if I read out loud?” Ainsley fluttered a hand in assent, and Varric turned back to the first page of _Conscripted by Love_.

…………………………..

Those of the Inquisitor’s friends who were in the fortress worked out a loose rotation so that someone was always with her. Blackwall came after Varric, replacing worn straps on his armor while he told stories of his youth—his real youth, as Rainier—and failed to tease stories out of her. Then Bull, who tried and utterly failed to get her to play Diamondback. Mistress Bagley came and went several times, chasing Ainsley’s male companions out to tend to her physical needs and check the bleeding.

Josephine came, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. The entire castle and the troops camped outside alike were in a state of hubbub after the group’s advent—and Dorian’s noisy tear in particular. She proposed that it would be better to give out the simple truth than allow the wild speculations already shaping to grow and spread. An effort would, of course, be made to encourage people to keep this amongst themselves and not spread it beyond Skyhold, but Josephine acknowledged the unlikelihood of any real success. Ainsley listened apathetically and mumbled assent. 

Solas came next, and sat by the bed silently as shadows shifted and lengthened across the room. When Ainsley finally spoke, it was a bare whisper.

“I didn’t even know if I wanted it, you know. ‘Til now. It made me…angry. Afraid. As much as anything. Just…another burden I didn’t choose, but this time, my fault. If I lose it…maybe…maybe if I’d felt differently, if I’d done differently…”

“Stop. No. Whatever comes of this, the blame is not yours. Your friends defended you no less passionately because they believed you were only you. Your enemy will not show mercy because of a babe, nor can you turn from your task. Do you think that Samson would have stayed his hand had he known?”

“I…no.”

“Then where lies your fault? In your reservations? It seems to me that any rational being should have reservations about taking entire responsibility for another life. It is a source of constant surprise to me that people think on it as little as they do.”

That earned a quiet snort. “What, you’ve never thought the thoughts that lead to…this?” She waved a hand at her midriff.

Solas chuckled briefly. “I have, naturally.”

The light dimmed and a golden finger of sunset shifted across the bed. Another silence stretched, but this one felt less sharp, less brittle. 

“Solas?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For sharing my burden.”

“You are welcome, falon.”

“And Solas? I wish…I wish you would let me share yours, whatever it is.”

“Ir abelas. That is mine alone. You bear enough. It is enough—it is a great deal—that you have shown me that there are still beautiful, valuable things in the world to be cherished.”

She smiled sadly and stretched out her hand, and Solas took it.

She fell asleep still holding his hand, and he did not remove it for long minutes after.


	13. Chapter 13

When morning light woke her, Varric had taken Solas’ place next to her, scribbling in a ledger balanced over his knees. She reached out to touch his shoulder, and he smiled over at her.

“Morning, beautiful.”

“I’m really not, you know.”

He snorted. “Ask Curly what he thinks. So, you sound a little better.”

“I…think I am, a little.”

“You need a woman to help?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll have one sent and get us some breakfast, alright? There’ll still be a runner at the door if you need. I’ll have ‘em stand inside so you don’t have to shout.”

“Thank you.”

When the midwife’s assistant had come and gone, Varric returned bearing a tray loaded with sweet porridge, sausage, and herb tea.

“Mistress Bagley tells me that if you don’t eat more today, she’ll be forced to take a personal hand.”

Ainsley took the tray and started eating while Varric worked on his own porridge. 

“Dorian’s staying away.” It wasn’t a question.

Varric sighed. “He’s…a bit upset.”

She laughed aloud, and then winced a bit and touched her side. “He’s furious. Poor Dorian. Please tell him to come up.”

“After you eat, Sandy.”

…………………………..

The door opened with more force than was strictly necessary. Ainsley heard Varric say something softly, and then Dorian was up the stairs.

“You summoned me, Your Worship?”

“Dorian…”

“Oh, we’re on a first-name basis now? Are we friends? I didn’t know.” The mage stared stubbornly at a point on the wall beyond Ainsley.

“Dorian.”

“Well, I’m confused, you see. Because I didn’t think friends lied to each other. I didn’t think friends kept secrets from each other. ‘A surprise for Cullen,’ was it? Hah! What an idiot you must have thought me. I didn’t think friends let friends run around making asses of themselves, terrified that they’d be too slow, that people they loved would…would _die_ because they didn’t know, didn’t know things they _should have known_.” Dorian’s voice was thick, his eyes bright.

“Dorian. I…”

“And all because you didn’t want to _worry_ us. Well, jolly well done. I feel as blithe as a child in spring, now. Not a care in the whole bloody world.”

“Are you done?”

“Don’t—don’t go around deciding what’s best for me any more.”

“I thought I was deciding what was best for me.”

“You really shouldn’t. Clearly you’re terrible at it.”

“Well, I haven’t had a lot of practice. Sorry.”

Dorian checked a bit at that. “Blighted Southerners and your towers.” He stared down his nose at her for a moment longer, and then harrumphed.

“You owe me for this. You owe me for terrifying us all and then being too…too depressing and pathetic to be properly angry at.” The rancor bled out of his tone. “Oh, look at you. Alright, what do you want, then?”

She considered.

“You promised to tell me about the incident with the fountain and the wisps.”

He laughed, caught by surprise. “Ah! Yes, Felix and me at the Archon’s cousin’s birthday soiree. Well, see, at that point…”

…………………………..

The journey that had taken the vanguard of the Inquisition soldiers, cavalry all, eight days to make at forced march took the Commander, the Seeker, and their hand-picked troop only four on the way back. The pair arrived at Skyhold, mud-spattered, wild-haired, and on their fourth change of horses mid-morning of the fifth day after the Inquisitor fell out of the Eluvian.

Their arrival went through the fortress like a stick through a wasp’s nest. In the stables, stablehands and a few stray wanderers clustered around, shuffling and looking…worried? Pitying? One reached out and caught Cullen’s sleeve.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ser. I just wanted to say as I’ve been praying for you and the babe every day.”

“I’m sorry…what?” Cullen stared abstractedly at the woman.

“The little one will be fine, I’m sure of it. The Maker wouldn’t let that happen to his very own Herald, would He now?” Worried eyes belied her positive words.

“I don’t…” Cullen looked to Cassandra, who met his gaze wide-eyed. “Where is the Inquisitor?” 

“Why, abed of course…” The woman looked bewildered.

His body jerked towards the stable entrance, and when Cassandra took the reins from his shaking hands, he ran.

He had to slow down as he passed through the main hall—too many people, too many obstructions, and he nearly toppled a couple of them. From the murmur of sound around him more prayers broke through—“Maker watch over you, Commander.” “Andraste preserve you and the babe.”—and then he was free of the crowd and pounding up the stairs.

When Dorian, whose watch it was, heard heavy boots thundering through the tower, his first instinct was to leap up, staff in hand, and interpose himself between the bed and whoever was coming. When Cullen exploded into the room, there was already a ball of purple energy crackling in the mage’s hand. The two men stared at each other for a moment before Dorian let the spell subside. There was something tight in his face as he stepped aside, and at last Cullen saw Ainsley, looking so small in the huge bed, propped up with pillows. The book Dorian had been reading her lay open to one side, pages riffling.

Cullen took two steps toward the bed and then shuddered and stopped.

“Why…what’s wrong? Why are you in bed? Why is everyone praying for me? What”—he choked on the word, swallowed and tried again. “What babe?”

Ainsley took a deep breath and closed her eyes, but when she opened them again they were clear and calm.

“Yours. Ours.”

Cullen started to run his hands through his hair and instead clutched at it spasmodically, curls standing up between his fingers.

“I tried to tell you but it was too late, too slow. I’m…sorry. Sorry isn’t enough. Samson…Samson tagged me with a pommel strike, and you can’t…it turns out you can’t just heal babies in the womb. It’s…it’s too little to feel moving, so. So. We don’t know. If it’s okay, I mean. If it’s…alive. We don’t know.”

Cullen wrenched at his hair again and then hurled himself into motion—three steps this way, a jerky stop, three steps back. “My—Maker, what? What? What? What? Maker preserve me…” 

At last, he threw himself at the bed, scrabbling at the blanket, pushing up her shirt, Dorian entirely forgotten. And there it was—the gentle but undeniable roundness low down, still mottled green and yellow with flecks of stubborn purple all along one side. He cupped it with his hand, and it was firm under his fingers.

“My…baby?”

“Yes.”

Cullen leaned down until his lips hovered over her stomach. “My baby.” A log burned through and settled gently in the fireplace, the small sounds loud in the stillness. 

“Baby? Are you there? Please, be there. I’m…I’m your papa. I haven’t said you could go yet. I…haven’t met you yet.” 

As he laid his cheek gently against her, Ainsley felt the wetness on it, and gasped as her own tears fell for the first time in five days. 

Dorian left them there, clinging together on the bed, and closed the door quietly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for your really supportive comments. They've meant a lot to me. This is basically the first fictional story I've ever written, after feeling that writing was part of what I should be pretty much all my life, and you guys are making it a very positive experience.


	14. Chapter 14

When he raised his head, his eyes were dry.

“Do you know, when I left the templars and joined the Inquisition, I had nothing to lose. Oh, my entire life until then, yes, but nothing I wanted, nothing I valued any more. My life to be a shield for others—that was all. I swore that to myself when I was thirteen, swore it again over and over. It was the vow I still kept when I left. But now…now, I have more than I dreamed of, more than I even knew to wish for. That I can’t always be your shield, that it could be taken from me so easily…” 

“You want…would want…children?” Ainsley felt unmoored. Here was the conversation she had imagined and dreaded and it…wasn’t that conversation at all, somehow.

“Your children? Maker’s breath, yes! I’d hardly had the idea, hadn’t dared—I didn’t know how you felt.”

Her face began to lighten, but a thought surfaced that stopped her.

“And if they’re mages? What then?”

His eyes flared wide. She caught his gaze and held it.

“I…had not thought…” His expression turned inward as he considered. She felt as though she could almost see the world shift behind his eyes, thoughts and memories leaving their track in little flickers of muscle, once one—or perhaps several—that made his nostrils flare and jaw clench. When he spoke again, his voice was hard with conviction.

“No child of mine will be taken to a Circle against their will while I yet draw breath. I would never again willingly see a child subjected to the Circles as they have been. Once…but I am not that man any longer. I will love any child of ours regardless.”

She let out a long breath.

“Oh, Maker, Cullen. I was so scared and alone and it hurt so much not to tell you. I didn’t want to burden you. I wanted to be your strength. And now it’s all such a mess.”

“You are my strength, love. Trust that I can be yours.” He slid up the bed to cradle her jaw in his hand, fingertips tangling in her hair. “I love you. Whatever comes.” He leaned towards her.

She tipped her head up, and whispered breathlessly, “Does this mean you’re not mad at me?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no. At the moment, though, I would rather hold you and pray and just…love you.”

“Oh, I love you. I love you.”

Their lips met, and it felt like coming home after a long journey.

………………………………

The next two days stood out in Ainsley’s memory for the rest of her life, marked as they were with a strange bittersweet unreality so utterly unlike everything that came before or after. 

Cullen refused to leave her side. He left all but the most essential of his tasks to his staff and took what meetings he could not avoid sitting at Ainsley’s desk, while captains and clerks shuffled awkwardly, trying to decide whether they should be including the Inquisitor when they spoke, and if so, how. When Mistress Bagley came next to tend to her charge, she tried to shoo the commander out and he calmly refused. After submitting him to a hard stare which affected him not in the least, she sent a runner and had screens set up to create a bathing area. 

When the midwife pronounced Ainsley’s bleeding stopped, she and Cullen looked at each other with such frightened hope in their eyes that Mistress Bagley, that good, stoic woman, cleared her throat several times before excusing herself. After that, Cullen was given permission to help Ainsley stretch her legs walking around the room, though that degenerated rapidly into Cullen remonstrating while Ainsley slapped his hands away and groused that she hadn’t forgotten how to walk just yet. The inactivity had drained her, though, and the injury still stabbed fiercely if she shifted her weight incautiously. The walks were brief.

On the seventh day after the battle at the Temple of Mythal, the sun was setting on a rather strange scene of melancholy domesticity in the Inquisitor’s room. Varric, Dorian, and Dagna had come up to share dinner with the commander and Inquisitor, eating off of trays on the bed so that Ainsley was included. A cautiously light tone was being maintained, Dorian and Varric bouncing jests and mild jibes between them. Dagna was in the midst of a colorful anecdote about a shop mishap when a clatter in the courtyard below caught Cullen’s attention. 

A glance from the balcony confirmed that a group of scouts had just gotten back, Sera with them. Cullen was turning to share what he knew would come as welcome news when Cole abruptly appeared, draped over the stair railing.

“We came back,” he announced.

Ainsley briefly clutched her chest and then snorted. “Yes, I see that. I’m so glad. How was the journey?”

Cole considered. “Stupid trees. Stupid bugs. Why does nature always smell like arse? Shite, that bird is watching me.”

Varric laughed. “I see that Sera enjoyed herself in the Wilds. I understand completely.”

Cole studied Cullen with an intensity that made the commander reach for the familiar comfort of the fine bristles at the back of his neck. 

“Everyone knows now. Does that mean I can talk about him?”

Ainsley puzzled for a moment, and then looked rueful. “Yes, everyone knows now. No need to keep anything secret now, Cole.”

“Oh, good! He doesn’t like it when you’re still all the time, you know. He misses bouncing around.”

Every head in the room came up sharply. Cullen shook off a moment’s paralysis and was across the room in four urgent steps to grasp Cole hard by the arms.

“Who, Cole? Who doesn’t like it?”

“Well, the baby. He doesn’t know why everything stopped moving and it’s strange. He doesn’t like it.”

For several seconds, everyone was frozen by the sheer wild suddenness of it all. And then Dagna whooped and Cullen crushed an astonished Cole to his chest and Dorian knocked over his chair as he leapt up and began to clap a dazed Varric violently on the back. Ainsley let out a little sound that was lost in the sudden noise, and her eyes nearly swallowed her face before she burst into stormy tears.

The next minutes were utter pandemonium. Cullen thrust Cole away from him and shook him violently for a second before demanding confirmation that the baby was well and whole, which a dazed Cole readily gave. Dorian pulled up a laughing Dagna and began to twirl her around in a wild dance while Varric attempted to save the drinks from their antics. Cullen ran to the bed and pulled a still-sobbing Ainsley into a hard kiss before spinning away to pound down the short flight of stairs to the guards waiting outside the door.

“Get Leliana! Get Josephine! Get Cassandra! Get everyone! Everyone! My son is alive. My son is well. Go! GO!” And he slammed the door in the guards’ dazed faces and ran back up the stairs, where he picked up Varric for a crushing bear hug before dashing back to the bed.

Once again in Cullen’s arms, Ainsley laughed wildly between sobs. 

“Oh, help! I can’t stop! Oh, and all along, it was that easy. Oh, oh oh!”

“Hush, love. It’s alright now. It’s all alright now.” 

He tipped her chin up and she gave one last shuddering gasp before leaning up to meet him. Though the kiss went on for long moments, none of their beaming audience thought to look away. Cole opened his mouth to say something, and Varric casually reached up to cover it with his hand.


	15. Chapter 15

_Mia—_

_I write in haste and in hopes that my news will reach you this way first. You were right to suspect my relationship with the Inquisitor—with Ainsley. You always were too smart for me. It is nothing I ever looked for or expected, but she is such an unexpected, astonishing woman. I would tell you about her at great length, but time is always short. I hope that when this is all resolved you will get to know her yourself, as I intend for her to be a part of my life as long as she will have me._

_To the point. I know you will say that I’ve done things rather out of order, and it’s true, but—I am to be a father. I cannot know what rumors will reach you there, but rest assured that while there was concern for a time, the babe is alive and well. I am very happy but also very aware that our struggle is not over. My heart quails to think of what Ainsley may yet have to face, but I must have faith._

_I will send this now and get on with things; I have been neglecting my duties shamefully._

_Cullen_  
………………………………

The next day, when Cullen tenderly helped Ainsley down the stairs to take a stroll in the garden, supervised by a watchful Mistress Bagley, the whole fortress felt like the first warm day of spring, full of relief and joy and promise. It seemed as though everyone in the hall wanted to offer congratulations, gifts, or both. Soon, a big-eyed commander was struggling to balance Ainsley on one arm and a box of frilly cakes, a ridiculously extravagant set of tiny flatware, a small hood embroidered around the face with crystal grace blooms, a slightly mashed bag of date candies, three bouquets of flowers, and a pre-gnawed wooden rattle in the other.

When Ainsley spotted a thin-faced little girl hovering hesitantly at the outer edge of the crowd of well-wishers, she knelt carefully and reached out to the girl with an encouraging smile. The little pixie shuffled forward with nervous looks up at the bemused adults around her.

Ainsley made her expression serious to match the girl’s. “Hello. I’m Ainsley. You looked like you wanted to say something?”

The child blinked, and abruptly held out the hands that had been behind her back, revealing a well-worn wooden doll with thinning yarn hair. A masked noble snorted delicately, and huge eyes flinched slightly in the freckled face.

Ainsley felt her eyes watering dangerously. “Is that for me, love?”

“For the baby,” the child clarified.

“Of course. I apologize. What is her name?” She reached out and gently took the doll.

“Um…Marian.”

“It’s a very good name. Thank you very much. When my baby is big enough, will you please come and teach him how to play with Marian properly?”

A smile transformed the underfed little imp into something truly beautiful, and she nodded vigorously before turning to dash away. Ainsley looked up at Cullen and found his eyes suspiciously bright as he looked down at her. She shifted her weight carefully to get up, made a false start, and suppressed a small squeal of pain. She sighed.

“Uh, hand up, please? Andraste’s chosen warrior can’t get her rear off the floor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys hate fluff, right? Man, I hate fluff. *disgusted noise*
> 
> Also, I would be remiss if I didn't say that while I like to think that Mia was in some ways an inevitable part of this story, I may have been inspired to greater affection for her character by GilShalos1's wonderful series Sidelong Glances.


	16. Chapter 16

By the time they actually reached the garden, Ainsley was very ready to sit down, and Cullen had had to send a bewildered page up to her room with arms full of assorted offerings.

Cullen had just gingerly lowered his Inquisitor to a bench when Morrigan approached them.

“Have you seen my son? Have you seen Kieran? He was just here…” Morrigan pivoted on her back foot, scanning the gardens. Her eyes fell on the door to the storage room where the Eluvian was kept. “Perhaps…your pardon…” Ainsley watched her walk away with mild interest. Cullen slipped around behind her and pulled her back to lean against his hips, and a wicked grin spread across her face. She leaned her head back and rolled her shoulders slowly and deliberately, shifting them over the fabric of his pants. His fingers had just tightened warningly on her shoulders when a small shriek cut into the moment.

Her eyes darted over to the storage room door in time to catch a flash of black straps. She tilted up her head to meet Cullen’s worried eyes.

“I’ll be back in a moment, love.”

In this place generally reserved for relaxation, Cullen’s purposeful motion drew attention, and several people watched as he strode quickly across the garden, took one look through the door, and nearly ran back.

“The Mirror is active. Morrigan has gone.”

Ainsley braced herself to rise, but a heavy hand prevented her. “Where are you going?”

She looked up at the commander, puzzled. “After Morrigan!”

“No! I forbid it.”

Her chin snapped up and her nostrils flared. “You for—you have no right!” Her voice rose on the last word.

His was dangerously quiet. “I think I have some.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “Because of a child? No! This is my body still, and never again will I allow _anyone_ to dictate what I do with it! Would you have _forbid_ my going to the Arbor Wilds, as well? Never wonder again why I didn’t tell you sooner! I have a job to do, and I will continue to do it!” She was shouting by the end, and Cullen scanned their audience with tight eyes.

Desperate, he knelt in front of her. “Ainsley! Please! This is neither the time nor the place. Please, I spoke unwisely, but this is ridiculous. You are weakened and injured. We have as yet no reason to believe that your unique skills are required. It would be foolhardy of you to go!”

Somewhat chastened, Ainsley replied more quietly. “But if Morrigan needs help…”

“She will have it, of course. I will go, now, with no further delay.”

“And what will I do, then? Sit here and wring my hands while you risk yourself?”

“And has that not been my life for a year now?”

She checked and then deflated. “Oh, love.”

He ran a hand through her hair, kissing her exposed forehead. When he made to pull away, she caught his neck and rested his forehead against hers.

“I know we have a great deal to figure out, love. You really cannot go, though. Stay and heal.”

“I’m sorry. Hurry, but…be safe. Be safe.”

He nodded and nuzzled her nose with his own before standing.

“Goodwife Bagley, if you would do me the service of escorting the Inquisitor back to her room.” And he was off.

………………………………

As Cullen strode out of the garden, he deliberately set the tension of his exchange with Ainsley aside for later examination. Entering the great hall, he called the sergeant on duty to his side, rapping orders as he walked. By the time he returned from his office, sword and shield to hand, the five-man squad he had requested was already assembling at the foot of the stairs to the great hall. He didn’t want to overreact to what could be as simple as a stray child, but neither did he wish to plunge headlong into a situation he knew almost nothing about without some preparation. He was painfully aware that most likely that was exactly what Ainsley would have done.

He hesitated outside of the door to the rotunda where Solas was usually to be found. Part of him still struggled with irrational jealousy of the man who quite possibly knew his love far better than he himself did and who seemed to have so much of her trust and affection. He knew, though, that she would say that Solas was the one most likely to have useful knowledge once they were in the Crossroads, and so he turned and opened the rotunda door.

“There is a situation.” Solas glanced up from the book he was reading, and quickly rose when he saw the commander there, armed and ready.

“Lead the way,” he said calmly, reaching for his staff as he walked by.

Cullen spoke quickly to bring the other man up to date. “I chanced to be in the garden when the witch Morrigan was looking for her son. She went to investigate the storage room where the Eluvian is kept, and though I was some distance away I heard her cry out. When I arrived to investigate, neither mother nor son was in the room and the Mirror was activated.”

“It is very troubling to think that the Eluvian could be activated by someone other than Morrigan.”

Cullen grunted assent. In another minute, the offending object was before him, colors shifting over it like a malevolent oil slick. The object that had saved Ainsley and his child from Corypheus. The object that was, currently, a gaping hole into the heart of his fortress, poorly understood even by the most knowledgeable among them. The guards he had ordered stood at the storage room door, but he would not feel comfortable until this device was shut off—preferably removed entirely.

Glancing at Solas, who regarded the Mirror with his usual blank mask, Cullen straightened his shoulders and stepped through.

...........................

As she made her slow way up to her tower room, Ainsley’s heart briefly seized up when her amulet went cold, until she remembered what Cullen had told her about his moment after she had left the temple. Even so, she fished it out and stood staring at it tensely, smoothing her fingers over the satiny surface. Her nose crinkled for a brief, bitter laugh. This time Cullen had rushed into the unknown and left her, helpless, behind, and she found she didn’t much like the shoe on the other foot.


	17. Chapter 17

Cullen took in the alien landscape around him—crags of rock twisted in every direction, boulders and islands floating with no evident source of support, everything wet with mist and cast in a sickly light that robbed his companions of their coloring—and worked hard to maintain his composure in front of his soldiers.

“This is not what I saw when Morrigan first showed us the Eluvian.” 

“This is the Fade. We are in the Fade.” Solas’ words fell into the unnatural silence heavily.

One of the soldiers behind him gave a strangle gasp, and he heard a sword drawn.

“How is that possible?” Cullen’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightened convulsively.

“The power it would take is…immense. We should proceed with caution.”

Cullen swallowed his own fear and turned to the huddle of soldiers behind him.

“Take heart. Our Inquisitor entered the Fade with this very man at her side, and came back to us. If she could face a high demon, I expect we can find a lost child.” And with a confidence he did not feel, he strode forward.

The ways of the Fade branched and came back together repeatedly, and everywhere was the same lifeless sameness, so that Cullen soon felt that it was all he could do to remember the path back to the mirror. Solas strode forward confidently, face rapt on the nightmare landscape around them, and so Cullen paced him.

When he heard a woman’s voice calling out around the bend, he picked up his pace, and soon came up with a Morrigan whose almost-tearful desperation in no way resembled her usual supercilious calm.

“Commander! I did not think…no matter. Please, my son…he is here somewhere. Why would Kieran do this? _How_ would he do this? If I lose him now, after all I have sacrificed…please. Please, help me look, Commander, just a little longer.”

“We will find him. He cannot have gone far.”

Solas cleared his throat. “It would be best if we did not call out any more. There are things here besides the boy which might hear us.”

And so they traveled forward in silence, grouped close together, eyes all about them. Solas was in the lead when he came to the top of a staircase and quickly backpedaled, throwing his arms out to halt the others. Morrigan gave no indication of any intent to halt, but Cullen braced an arm across her chest.

“Please, just a moment.”

Sidling along the twisted stone, he moved level with Solas, who was looking around the edge of a skeletal statue, a veilfire-gree torch flickering above their heads. Immediately he saw their quarry below and some distance away—a smaller figure the right size and shape to be Kieran, facing what appeared to be a woman with…horns?

“A demon? I have never seen its like.”

“No. That is no demon. Much worse for some, though possibly not for Kieran.”

Morrigan, unschooled to command, drew near enough to see her son over the lip of the stairs. Instantly, she gasped and cried out his name, nearly running halfway down the stairs before stopping.

“No! It cannot be!”

Cullen repressed a snarl of frustration and looked at Solas.

“Thoughts?”

“Follow her alone. I will remain with your soldiers. This is not a fight you can win, so we must avoid provocation, but I think Morrigan should not be left to face this alone. Quickly—go.”

Cullen took the steps two at a time, drawing up with Morrigan just in time to hear her rasp out a single word:

“Mother.”

Cullen looked between the two women, at a loss. “This…is your mother?”

The older woman’s smile was predatory. “Indeed. What a pleasant surprise! A little family reunion…mother, daughter, grandson.”

“Kieran is _not_ your grandson. Let him go,” Morrigan snarled, anger and fear written in every rigid line of her body. Cullen flexed his hands nervously in his gloves, recalling Solas’ words.

“As if I were holding the boy hostage! She’s always been ungrateful, you see.” The woman—he could see now that the “horns” were swept-back peaks of snowy white hair—looked at Cullen as if inviting him to share in a joke.

“Ungrateful! I know how you plan to extend your life, wicked crone. You will not have me, and _you will not have my son_.” The venom in Morrigan’s tone warned Cullen, and as Morrigan raised her hands to cast, he instinctively reached for his Templar training, only to find the now-usual slightly sickening blank.

The white-haired woman responded with total calm, raising one hand, palm filled with blue light that flared in her eyes as well, and Morrigan’s casting imploded, leaving her reeling.

“That’s quite enough. You’ll endanger the boy.”

Morrigan’s eyes filled with horror. “What have you done to me?”

“I? I have done nothing!” There was laughter in the older woman’s voice. “You drank from the Well of your own volition.”

Morrigan’s body went stiff and she gasped once, sharply. “You…are Mythal.” With the last word, the fight seemed to drain out of her.

Cullen struggled mightily. “Mythal? As in the ancient elven god? I had thought…” _That you were not real. That you were an elf. That you were murdered._ He didn’t know where to begin.

“I thought you dead,” said Morrigan.

“And you were not the first to make that mistake, yet here I am.” Mythal, if it were really her, gently slapped Kieran on the back, propelling him towards his mother. He went readily, and Morrigan embraced him fiercely, clinging to him for a long moment.

Kieran spoke for the first time, his voice not yet deepened by age. “I’m sorry, Mother. I heard her calling to me. She said now was the time.”

Morrigan’s voice cracked. “I do not understand.”

“Once, I was but a woman, crying out in the lonely dark for justice. And she came to me, an ancient wisp of a being, and she granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her.”

Cullen earnestly wished that Ainsley was with him, or at least Solas. Anyone who might have the slightest idea what was going on here. He grasped at the only thing he could think of so far.

“Your pardon, but…I thought Morrigan said that you were Mythal? But you are…human. And you speak as though Mythal is only a part of who you are. I fear I am at a disadvantage.”

“Mmmm. Handsome, and polite as well.” The predatory smile was back, and Cullen resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck—or possibly run. “I have been called many things, Commander. You will know me as Flemeth. Mythal is a part of me, yes—no more separate than your heart from your chest.”

“Flemeth? The Witch of the Wilds? But Morrigan…” Cullen gaped at her, at the legend, the campfire story, the cautionary tale. He remembered talk in the barracks; remembered young templars flush with their new powers daydreaming of becoming hunters and bringing down the evil Witch of the Wilds.

Flemeth shifted her gaze to Morrigan again. “You hear the voices of the Well, girl. What do they say?”

Morrigan lowered her head, whether in concentration or resignation he could not tell.

“They…say you speak the truth.”

“But what was Mythal? A legend given name and called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning.”

Morrigan cut in. “You say you carry Mythal, and you follow her whims. Do you even know what she truly is?”

“You seek to preserve the powers that were, daughter, but to what end? It is because I taught you, girl. Because things happened that were never meant to happen. You have danced to my tune all your life, even when you thought yourself free. Mythal was betrayed as I was betrayed—as the world was betrayed. Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!” Flemeth’s voice rose and roughened to a passionate cry and then fell silent, letting the lifeless stillness of the Fade rush back in.

“You must be aware of the enemy we face, of the magnitude of this crisis. Whatever you may be or may have been, you clearly wield great power.” Cullen stopped to clear his throat and question his sanity in passing, but he knew what the Inquisitor would have him do. “Any assistance you might render would be…ahh…most welcome.”

“Indeed. I will help—once I have what I came for.”

Morrigan took a step forward, reaching for her son. “No! I will not allow it!”

“He carries a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness. You know this.”

“He is not your pawn, mother! I will not let you use him!”

“Have you not used him? Was that not your purpose? The reason you agreed to his creation?”

“That was then. I knew no better. Now…now he is my _son_.” Morrigan took a steadying breath and turned to Cullen.

“I…I have learned that Flemeth extends her life by possessing the bodies of her daughters, Commander. That was the fate she intended for me. I…thwarted her, or thought I had. But if she now intends to take Kieran in my stead…”

“Is this true? If you intend to take the child, I warn you that I will not stand by.” He thought of Solas’ warning and stiffened his spine against a moment of weakness.

“You would throw your life away so readily for someone else’s child, knowing that your own awaits you? How…noble.” The last word dripped sarcasm. Cullen wondered urgently just how much this woman knew.

As Morrigan and Flemeth continued to exchange barbs, Cullen turned his attention to Kieran, trying to gauge the boy’s reaction. He did not seem upset; in fact, he seemed eerily calm, not at all cautious of the legendary being within arm’s reach. He followed the conversation between his mother and grandmother—dear Maker, and was this family?—with apparent interest but no fear. Morrigan, by contrast, seemed ever more desperate.

At last, Flemeth looked to Kieran, and a silent communication seemed to pass between the two of them.

Flemeth's offer was simple--and vile. Morrigan's freedom for Kieran's, or vice versa. Morrigan hesitated not at all before offering herself for her son's safety, and Cullen felt something shift within him at the younger woman’s unflinching willingness to sacrifice for her son. 

A small part of him gibbered at the idea of being so vulnerable. If even so hard a woman as Morrigan could be brought low so readily, because a piece of her heart went around outside of her body, what must it feel like? At least Ainsley was strong—very strong, indeed—but the child would be helpless. What if they could not bring peace before it was born? Was he ready to love the child of Andraste’s Herald in the midst of total war? What of Andraste’s children? Did they look on as she burned? Were they hunted? Were they ever…happy?

Kieran turned to face his grandmother, who took his hands gently. She began to cast, and a ball of light started to push its way out of the boy’s chest.

“Kieran!” Cullen leapt forward and then stopped, unsure.

The boy looked at him, eyes still calm. “It’s alright. She won’t hurt me.” 

The ball of energy transferred from Kieran to Flemeth, and as it went, it seemed to sing somewhere just beyond the edge of hearing. When the light faded, Kieran smiled.

“No more dreams?”

Flemeth returned the smile, and for a moment her gaze was strangely tender. “No more dreams.”

“A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in danger from me. Listen to the voices. They will teach you, as I never did.”

She turned, and began to walk further into the Fade.

“Wait!” Cullen made to follow her. “Will you help us now? Corypheus threatens everything, surely even yourself.”

She did not turn around or stop, but her voice drifted back. “I have already helped you. Morrigan will know. Oh.” And at this she did turn, for a moment. "And tell your elf that he need not fear for his secrets from me." And she went.

Cullen looked back to Morrigan embracing her child, and scrubbed a hand over his face. It was past time to take the child and leave this place for a world where things made some sense again.

………………………….

Later, as they wrapped up the debriefing in the war room, Cullen felt himself regarding the whole episode much more positively than he had at the time. Corypheus’ overweening pride was to be his downfall—kill his dragon, and he could die. And the Well and Mythal had shown Morrigan how to best the dragon. He looked across the table to Ainsley, standing with one hand braced on the table but her head held high. When she caught his gaze, she smiled the toothy smile that meant that someone was about to learn a painful lesson, and he couldn’t help returning it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleurgh. In-game dialogue is in-game dialogue. Here you go--I'm tireda lookin at it. Looking forward to the next chapters though.
> 
> In other news, I have a Dragon Age tumblr thingie. If you think you'd like crude humor, excessive profanity, pictures of cute boys kissing, and me randomly yelling about writing and Dragon Age meta, that's a thing. ninjasqurrl.tumblr.com


	18. Chapter 18

That night, she lay in the gentle dark, the wind for once still outside her tower, and tried to cross the inky waters of her mind to safety and sleep. Cullen’s protective hand lay lax over her midriff but no strength, no love can shield a person from their own anxieties. They climbed each upon the shoulders of the last, fastening barbed claws in her heart, and soon she began to shake with the strain of repressed sobs.

It had been many years and long ones since Cullen Rutherford had been a heavy sleeper. The shaking of her breath woke him. Dismayed, he pulled her closer, and she burrowed into him, face against his chest, legs tangling between his, arm tight around his waist. She shook and hiccoughed and sobbed with quiet desperation while he cradled the back of her head in his hand and stared unseeing into the night.

Finally, he tried, “What is it, love?”

“Nothing. Everything. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“I just…everything. Like, Corypheus? Who am I kidding? Samson nearly had me, you know. If Bull had been a second slower…and Corypheus is so much stronger. At Haven…Cullen. We didn’t fight. It was a joke. He threw me around like a dog with a toy. Only a miracle…”

“Then we must believe that there will be another miracle, Herald.”

“I wish…I wish I had your faith. But I can’t. Why save me, and let so many others die? I’m nothing special.”

“You know I don’t believe that.”

“Cullen…” She pulled back to look up at him. “Do you love Ainsley Trevelyan, or the Herald of Andraste? Think hard. I need the truth.”

Cullen stared at her, marveling that she could not know this, that she could carry her fears for so long and leave him with no inkling. They had so much to learn about each other. Please, Maker, let them have the time to do it.

“It’s…they’re not two different things to me. I love Ainsley Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste. You. I love you.”

“And if it’s a lie, and I fail? If no miracle comes, and I die?”

He crushed her to him and spoke into her hair. “Then it will not matter to me, because I will be gone. Corypheus will not touch you while I live”

She shook her head violently.

“Please..please don’t. I can’t…I just can’t.”

“Have faith, then. If not in the Maker, then in me. In Dorian and Solas, Bull, Blackwall, Cassandra—all the people here who love you. Not because you’re the Herald. Because you are you. We _will_ defeat Corypheus. I will admit no other possibility. And then we will make a life together, us and our child.”

“It’s too…I can’t picture it. If only I could…Cullen, give me something to hold onto?”

“Maker’s Breath, I picture it all the time now. You grown round and ripe with my son…hearing his first cries…I’ve taken to staring like a fool at the refugee children, the soldier’s families, giving them your smile and your hair and your nose. I watch them running to their parents and imagine him reaching for me, in my arms, in yours. I’ll teach him to play chess—Solas and Dorian will play against him until one day, I’ll send him to Mia, and he’ll beat her. Unless”—he looked down at her with a mock-frown. “Unless he takes after you. Then perhaps best to stick to Diamondback.”

She snorted, and ran the heel of her hand over wet cheeks.

“I never could play the long game. I’m utter shit at thinking more than one turn in advance.”

“True enough, but I for one am glad of it. If you were perfect, you would have no need of me—and what a sad, dark world that would be.”

She laughed quietly, relaxed now in his arms. He carded his fingers through her hair.

“Sleep, love. And have faith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave Ainsley a face! If you'd rather imagine her the way you have been, please do, but if you'd like to see, she's here: http://ninjasqurrl.tumblr.com/post/117002953621/i-decided-to-be-self-indulgent-to-reinspire


	19. Chapter 19

She was out for a walk, making a circuit of the parapets with Varric, when it happened. The walking had been going well enough—so long as she was a bit careful of how she moved, she could keep a normal pace. A normal dwarven pace, at least. Varric had just finished telling a complex joke involving three templars and a wyvern, and she had her head back, laughing, when the sky tore open and green light flooded out. She threw out her hand to grip Varric’s shoulder and gaped, frozen in place. Shouts and screams drifted up from the fortress below.

For a while, Ainsley just stood there, fingers digging into the muscle of Varric’s shoulder.

“Varric, I’m not ready for this,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Well, I suggest you look ready,” he hissed through a rictus that mocked smiling. “History is watching.”

She became aware of the near-distance again with a lurch. People were scrambling for a higher vantage point all around Skyhold, and the walkway was filling up with people. Those near her were looking between the Breach and the Herald with tense faces.

“…Right.” She rifled through thoughts made sluggish by fear until she found something, and then declaimed loudly, “At last! The time has come for us to finish this struggle!” Under her breath, she added, “Maker, that was terrible.”

“No, no, Sandy. Good stuff. You got this.” Varric thumped her gently in the small of her back.

People shifted away to let her through, her passage parting the crowd like water around a rock, until the two of them reached the base of the stairs into the keep. Leliana, Dorian, and Solas waited there, tense but ready. Glancing at the barely-repressed panic all around her, Ainsley thought it best to try her line again.

“At last! The time has come to finish this.” She considered for a moment. “Corypheus stands no chance against the might of the Inquisition!” Leliana’s eyes narrowed briefly in what Ainsley was sure must be amusement, but all she did was turn and gesture up the stairs.

Josephine and Vivienne awaited them in the War Room.

Leliana turned to face her, eyes serious.

“Inquisitor. Are you well enough to ride out?”

“No, I think I’d rather wait here for Corypheus to come tearing through the whole Inquisition to get at me. Clearly I’m as well as I’m going to be.”

“But you are still recovering. It may not be wise”—

“How fortunate that I am a mage and not a swordswoman. Nor particularly wise.”

By the time the commander made it up from restoring sanity in the valley, the rest of the inner circle were all present in the War Room. Even Sera leaned in the doorway as if unsure whether she belonged or, indeed, wanted to belong there.

With Cullen’s arrival, planning began in earnest. A detachment of soldiers with previous demon-fighting experience, a contingent of mages to re-seal the Breach, more troops to follow under the Marshal, and the entire inner circle, Morrigan, the Inquisitor, and the Commander as the lance to break Corypheus. Now was no time to hold back.

When Master Dennet himself offered Ainsley the reins of her charger, she looked around, tense.

“Bull,” she muttered to the chest of the man in question. “Make a wall. I don’t need people to see if this goes badly.”

Bull needed no further instruction, and quickly nudged several companions into a little barrier between Ainsley and the surrounding eyes.

She put her foot to the stirrup, tested her weight, and flinched. Again she tried, and again stopped. She looked at Bull, and her face was dangerously close to tears, lost and frightened. Immediately, he scooped her up under the arms and carried her across the gap to where Cullen was already on his horse, shouting last-minute orders from the higher vantage.

Cullen looked down, startled, as Bull lifted Ainsley to perch sidesaddle in front of him, before quickly shuffling to make room behind the horn.

“Make it look good, Commander,” Bull rumbled. “We can figure something else out once there are fewer eyes.”

Understanding flashed in Cullen’s eyes, and he wrapped an arm possessively around Ainsley and kissed her deeply before smiling fiercely out at the crowd. He resettled her weight to free his sword and kept his head high while he bided time for the rest to mount up. Dennet brought a lead rope for the Inquisitor’s charger and handed it up to a mounted Blackwall. When everyone was ready, Cullen drew his sword and heeled his horse ‘round in a semicircle, holding the sword high above both their heads.

“For the Herald! For the Inquisition! To victory!”

Cullen solid against her shoulder, she recalled his words from the night before. _“Have faith, then. If not in the Maker, then in me. In Dorian and Solas, Bull, Blackwall, Cassandra—all the people here who love you. Not because you’re the Herald. Because you are you. We will defeat Corypheus. I will admit no other possibility.”_ The pain in her gut, the press of the saddle horn in her hip, the terror of the sky above, all receded into the background.

The mad battle-grin took her face. She threw up her left hand, letting the Anchor surge through to crackle and glow over the crowd. For a moment, she saw them reflected in the faces of the crowd below—framed between the sword and the Anchor, rising high on Cullen’s black warhorse, the flaming eye and sword on her chest, her wild face framed by his leonine mantle and powerful shoulders, his golden head catching the light above her.

_History is watching._

She hadn’t wanted it. Didn’t want it. But she’d be damned if she’d let them down now.


	20. Chapter 20

Down the road and past the last of the tents, when they stopped to switch her to her own horse, she was very glad that history was not watching with quite so many eyes. Stiff from the awkward position, she had to be lifted down like a sack of feed before being bundled onto her own horse sidesaddle and secured with a makeshift rope harness. 

She saw the worry in her companions’ eyes—how could they imagine bringing her to battle in this condition?—and thought that perhaps a demonstration was in order.

“Hey, loves, eyes up.” She tensed for a moment, casting, and then hurled a vicious burst of force at a boulder further up the trail. Lichen, loose pebbles, and stone chips exploded outward in a cloud, and when the dust settled a bit, the stone was scoured clean and cracked clear across. “I don’t swing a sword. I trust you’ll stay between me and the enemy, and you can trust I’m still at your back.”

Otherwise, the ride to Haven was a subdued affair. When dusk came—early, as it always was in the mountains—camp was set efficiently and with little of the usual raillery and casual complaint. Around the fires, voices were low. Soldiers diced and sipped thin broth before turning in. Solas wound bandages while Bull and Dorian played a game of stones. Cullen sat crosslegged with Ainsley in his lap and his hands over her stomach, and they leaned together in silence, staring at the fire.

The next morning, another several hours’ ride brought them to the ruins of Haven midday of the next day, though with the Rift painting everything a lurid green it felt less like a place where time and reality mattered and more like the barren landscape of the Fade. Almost no one spoke, and hands were tense on reins, eyes darting quickly.

After hasty conference, Cullen split his troops, and a contingent stayed in the ruins as a backstop while the rest of the group continued on to the temple. As they drew nearer, the ground became increasingly uneven, scarred by the Breach. The horses were sent back.

Shortly afterwards, the sounds of struggle filtered down the path, demonic shrieks counterpointing more human shouts and screams. Ainsley picked up her pace, waving a hand over her shoulder. 

“Go! Go!”

Bull, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Vivienne surged past her, weapons out. Cullen stepped in front of her and then held there, keeping pace, shield unslung and sword drawn. She heard Dorian cursing behind her, and felt Solas’s barrier sweep over her, the familiar signature of his magic soothing.

As they rounded the next bend, Ainsley first took in the fighting—a group of Inquisition scouts battling demons, her companions bursting into the fight—and then she looked further up the path, to the archway beyond.

Corypheus.

“Herald! You got my invitation! How delightful.” His voice rolled over the noise of battle as if it wasn’t there, echoing in her mind, and for a moment she was back in Haven, winter-chilled and hanging from that iron grip.

“And you brought your precious Commander. What good games we will play, you and I.”

Ainsley responded with a blast of fire hurled through a momentary gap in the fighting. It burst over Corypheus with no apparent effect.

“Here to decide which of us rules Thedas as its new god, then?”

“No! I’m here to make a new world. You have no place in it.” 

More quietly, she hissed, “Cullen, I need a clearer angle. Circle left and try not to draw more attention than we can help.” The lion helm hid Cullen’s response, but he paced along the edge of the fight, angling to keep her behind him as much as possible.

Corypheus’ laughter echoed, bouncing off of ruined walls.

“A new world? Only I have the strength to shape the world!” He raised his arms, and the Fade pulled and rippled around him in spreading waves. The ground began to shake, and the tremors increased in violence until a sudden deafening crack and shift threw everyone to the ground. A spell from one of the other mages flew wide of its mark and sailed over Corypheus’ head where he stood, the only still point in utter chaos, his laughter washing over their screams and shouts.

As she lay sprawled against ragged stone, Ainsley heard more shouts of shock and confusion coming from behind her, and she rolled over to stare in horror. The ground a bare yard beyond her was falling away. No! No, she was rising, lifting towards the Breach, and the entire Temple of Sacred Ashes with her. She scrambled to the edge on her stomach, looking down in dismay at her rapidly receding forces. Sera, Varric--almost all of their soldiers and all of the mages were still on solid ground, gaping upwards. As she watched, a falling boulder crushed one of the troops, sending shrapnel flying into several more. Someone’s leg bent at an angle never intended by nature, and he went down screaming. The shrinking figures broke and began to run, two of them dragging the injured soldier between them.

Then Cullen was there, picking her up and hauling her away from the edge just as another section crumbled away from their feet. They stared at each other, wild-eyed.

“Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit! How am I supposed to close the Breach without those mages?” In her extremity, Ainsley tried to shake Cullen, and succeeded only in rattling herself back and forth.

“Worry about Corypheus first.” He bellowed to be heard over the shriek and crash of tortured stone. “We can match him, love. We _can_ match him!”

That brought another panicky thought. As the ground stabilized, her eyes searched frantically among the companions and soldiers picking themselves up. Cassandra, Dorian, Solas, Bull, soldier, scout, no, no, no no no…”Where is Morrigan? _Morrigan_!” No one replied. She envisioned the witch crushed on the ground below, and with her their greatest weapon against Corypheus’ dragon.

“We kill the dragon ourselves, then. It will not be our first.” Cassandra saw no purpose in mentioning that this dragon was Blight-corrupted, its very blood possibly poisonous, and made both mad and horribly powerful with red lyrium.

“Quickly,” shouted Dorian. “He’s gone ahead!”

The fight wound up through the ruins, the companions and the handful of remaining Inquisition scouts and soldiers alternating between pounding away at Corypheus and battling the demons he brought through. Corypheus’ attacks were punishing at a distance, and anyone who got within reach of those taloned hands paid a heavy price. Before long, Dorian’s left arm was hanging limp, Vivienne’s spirit blade flickered with exhaustion, and a horrible expanse of Blackwall’s gambeson was soaked through with blood. One of the scouts had darted too close to Corypheus’ scything arms and gone flying, and Solas was leaning over her trying to force a healing potion in between sobbing breaths. Ainsley felt sure that she had, at one point, seen Bull land a mighty swing on Corypheus’ arm, only to have it rebound, and she could not have told whether the blood on that arm was the enemy’s or perhaps one of theirs. Ainsley herself was limping badly, favoring her left side and wheezing like a bellows, each breath fire, but Cullen stood in front of her still, and nothing had yet reached through the wall of his defense.

“Look at you! Such heroes, all of you. I think I’ll preserve you in red lyrium—a gallery of statues to remind my worshippers of the price of irritating me.” Corypheus turned his head to the side and cast something that flickered and then vanished. “Pet, do leave them whole, will you?”

There was a rush of moth-eaten wings that nearly leveled everyone present, and amidst a wind that stank of death the blighted dragon rose above them, blotting out the sky. Its head twisted to allow it to glare down at them with one baleful eye. It turned, mouth filling with flame, and Ainsley’s heart failed her.

It was all coming unraveled. No Morrigan. No mages to seal the wound in the sky. Her friends flagging and faltering, her own body crippled and failing—a poor shell to hold two lives. She saw Cullen shift position, raising his shield to protect her from the dragon’s breath, and tears pricked her eyes.

_“Cullen, give me something to hold onto?”_

_“Maker’s Breath, I picture it all the time. You grown round and ripe with my son…hearing his first cries, holding him…”_

She closed her eyes, trying to see what he’d seen, just once.

And then came a deafening scream of defiance, and a second dragon cannoned into the first.

Bull’s roar of joy and Corypheus’ snarl of rage met and tangled in the thick air, galvanizing Ainsley. She dragged herself towards Corypheus, digging the spike of her staff into the ground one-handed, the other clutched against her side. Perhaps ten paces away, she braced herself and hurled an ice spell, following up with another rocky blast of force. Bull, dragon-crazed, hurled himself into Corypheus’s left side and was repulsed brutally. Above, the dragons shrieked and clashed. A shower of stones and stone chips barraged the field, and someone screamed in pain. Ainsley focused on her efforts to disable Corypheus, but nothing seemed to make a difference.

“’Ware above!,” Cassandra bellowed, and Cullen flung aside his shield to grab Ainsley around the waist and hurl them both out of the way as both dragons crashed into the center of the battlefield. As her vision swung crazily, she saw Dorian take a wing to the gut and go flying, and then she was on the ground, Cullen’s body shielding hers.

After a moment, the dust began to settle and Cullen pushed himself up and cast about for his shield, only to spot it sheared in half next to the mauled body of a soldier. Something had carved a furrow across the muzzle of his lion helmet that bizarrely mirrored his own scar but he seemed otherwise whole. Ainsley rolled herself over and, with an effort of raw will, pulled herself to her knees. 

Morrigan lay inert and in human form on the ground. Bull was bleeding profusely from a trio of jagged gashes across his back and fighting like a man possessed. Vivienne’s hand was sluggish on her staff but she was still up and fighting, and Blackwall and Cassandra were still up, though Blackwall’s shield was drooping low. Dorian slumped against the wall where he had landed, head lolling sickeningly. She didn’t spot Solas for a moment, and her heart clenched anew, but moments later a hurtling fist of stone flew across the battlefield. Incredibly, one of Leliana’s scouts was still in the fight, darting between the dragon’s legs, daggers flickering in counterpoint to Cole’s, and a couple of soldiers hesitated behind the other warriors. 

_We will defeat Corypheus. I will admit no other possibility_

Corypheus—where was Corypheus? There…halfway up the next stairway. Ainsley ground out a string of curses, shoving herself up against knifing pain, until Cullen was there under her arm, lifting her up.

“He’s running,” she screamed.

“Go,” roared Bull. “We’ve got this!”

Cullen half-dragged, half-carried Ainsley toward the stairs, as Blackwall and Solas peeled off and followed. Everyone moved with the dogged ferocity of desperation, saving their breath for the fight.

Corypheus’ voice boomed out over them again. “Worms! Why do you persist? Your dragon is defeated. You are dying. You cannot kill me, and you know it. I see it in your eyes.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, Ainsley managed a one-fingered salute and felt, more than heard, Cullen snort next to her. Blackwall brushed past and the quiet whump of a barrier spell hit them all, but she was horribly afraid that Corypheus spoke the simple truth.

Cullen could not stay by her as he had when there were more warriors—Corypheus had to be engaged and kept busy, or they would be completely at the mercy of his punishing ranged attacks. He propped Ainsley against a crumbling wall and joined Blackwall in an effort to flank the insane magister and divide his attention. 

Blackwall pump-faked with his shield to draw attention before sliding a thrust in down low that drew a snarl, and Cullen used the diversion to level a heavy overhanded swing at Corypheus’ waist. Ainsley tried to freeze their enemy for an extra moment, but her spell was shrugged off, and Corypheus floated backwards just in time to avoid the attack. And then he rushed forward, taloned hand full of energy, and shoved his palm into Blackwall’s face. Blackwall flew backwards and skidded, landing with his shield-arm twisted unnaturally and trapped under his still body. Ainsley screamed, and Solas ran to catch the bearded man under the shoulders and haul him away from the fight.

Cullen stood alone, now. He bobbed and wove, elegant and light-footed, and wherever Corypheus’ talons were, there the commander was not, instead lashing out from a different angle. It was beautiful and terrible and Ainsley almost stopped breathing. 

After half a minute, though, Corypheus laughed.

“No matter, little man. I already know your weakness.” And he threw his hand out palm forward to strike at Ainsley.

Cullen roared his rejection and flung himself through the air, twisting, to block the spell with his own body. And Corypheus simply caught him out of the air.

The sword fell from nerveless fingers as Cullen hung, pierced both front and back by dagger-sharp talons. Ainsley screamed and did not stop screaming, the sound tearing her throat. Solas ran forward, desperately twisting and pulling at the Veil as he moved, but what could he do? What could he do, and Cullen was going to die; they were all going to die, but please Maker, not Cullen, not Cullen! Gasping, she took one step, then another, but there was nothing she could do without hitting Cullen…

And then, the deafening death-scream of a high dragon, and a ball of crackling red energy soared past her and struck Corypheus in the chest. He roared in anger and staggered back, dropping Cullen. As the red energy flowed over Corypheus, Solas darted forward and dragged the commander away, ripping off his helmet and reaching for a potion.

“Enough,” Corypheus raged, recovering. “Enough! I will end this.”

Suddenly the orb that had started it all, the elvhen focus, was in his hand, and he was pouring his own twisted red energy into it. But Ainsley felt something else under it, something familiar, something…beloved? 

And she knew that her miracle had come.

She threw out her left hand and let the Anchor come roaring out, pulling, calling. She laughed, beyond fear, beyond endurance. Yes, she knew that energy. She looked over to Solas where he knelt over Cullen, and he met her eyes. She laughed again, and _yanked_ , and the orb flew to her hand.

The energy exploded through her. It filled every bone, every vein, flared out until her hair was a crackling corona around her face. It lifted her and buoyed her, and she strode forward, pain and the memory of pain erased, as more and more energy surged out of the orb and through her arm, until for a moment she thought that her mind would be erased and her body burned away, and then the connection with the orb snapped, and it was nothing but a lifeless piece of stone. It popped quietly, twice, like a hot rock tossed into cold water, and then shattered, but the Veil continued to roar inside and all around her. 

There were no barriers. Everything, everywhere, was magic.

“No! How…Dumat aid me!” Corypheus cowered back from her, arms up.

“I don’t think he’s listening, godling.” She looked up to the Rift and reached out, still laughing. Energy thundered out of her, striking the gash in the sky and twisting it, folding it, until it snapped closed. Corypheus was on his knees before her, now. She looked down at her hand, and saw that the Anchor crackled through all over her body.

“Your god is dead, and you are no god. You are a foolish man, who never understood my power or the power you abused so freely. Stolen toys, Corypheus. What you tried to steal seems to have chosen me instead. Maybe it prefers love and freedom to hate and power.”

She never knew why she said it—it just seemed natural.

“Dread Wolf take you, Corypheus.”

And she held out her hand, and Corypheus writhed and folded in on himself and then winked out in a blinding flash of green.

For a few moments, everything was still and silent except for the sound of harsh breathing behind her. She turned to find Solas with Cullen propped against his shoulder, both of them staring at her, and further back, the other companions clustered at the head of the stairs, frozen and gaping in awe.

Suddenly, the world lurched sideways. A floating boulder fell and sheared off a chunk of wall as it crashed through.

“Quick!” Ainsley screamed at them, gesturing, and everyone ran forward. She hurled herself over Cullen and a coruscating green barrier blew out of her, growing until it covered everyone she could see. They clung together as the ground pitched and shattered, and there was nothing but the sound of screaming and rocks crashing and splitting.

And then stillness, and all outside the barrier was hidden by swirling clouds of rock dust. She looked up to find Cullen’s eyes on her, still clear and alive, and then her eyes rolled up in her head and she surrendered to unconsciousness.


	21. Chapter 21

_Mia—_

_First, apologies for the state of my writing. It is expected that I will make a full recovery from injuries sustained, but for now fine control eludes me._

_No doubt you will already know that Corypheus has been defeated and the Breach permanently sealed. There is still a great deal to do, but for the moment we turn our attention to recovery and celebration._

_I know that I have been a poor brother to you all these many years, and would like to make amends now that there is some breathing space. I hope that you will all take some time to journey here to Skyhold. I dislike asking where I cannot reciprocate, but for the time being Ainsley is under instruction to forgo physical hardship. The soldiers we have sent with this message will, if you wish it, do whatever is needed to maintain your households—they all come from farming families. Simply instruct them. They also have funds which you should use at your discretion to facilitate travel._

_Please, if you can, make the journey. We will hope to hear from you soon._

_Cullen_

…………………

Dorian was on his way to lunch when he found her in the rotunda, tracing the unfinished lines of the great wolf over the stone yet again. He came up behind her and put his arms over her shoulders, leaning on her casually.

“Sometimes, when I dream…it feels like he’s just around the next corner, and I spend all night chasing his stupid bald head. Might be true, for all I know. Slippery asshole.”

His sigh ruffled her hair. 

“Leliana is looking for him. There might be word, at least.”

She shook her head. “No, he won’t be found unless he means to be, not even by Leliana.”

Dorian didn’t argue, and so the two of them stood in silence, staring together at the bare lines on the wall, at the wolf and the dragon. She took a deep breath, and it shuddered in her chest, jogging Dorian’s arms.

“I miss him. I wish…he could have trusted…” Her throat closed, and she turned to press her face to Dorian’s shoulder.

“Maybe if I hadn’t broken it…”

She didn’t finish. What was there to say?

………………….

_Cullen—_

_It’s “we” now, is it? Well, well. I suppose it had better be. And gold and soldiers, all high and mighty? Single combat with darkspawn magisters? Each tale is wilder than the last. Why yes, I think it’s about time I got better reacquainted with my little brother, if only to stop him getting too big for his britches._

_We’re making plans—I think I’ll bring my eldest and youngest and the others will stay with their father. Branson will come, whatever he thinks about that now, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait to catch up with Ros, as her second child is only a few months old._

_Give my best to Ainsley, and tell her I am very much looking forward to getting to know her. I will send again when we are setting out._

_Mia_


	22. Chapter 22

“Hey Boss. You got a minute?”

Ainsley turned, surprised to see Bull in the gardens.

“For you? Of course. You need something?”

Bull glanced around, deceptively casual as always, and then hunkered down to sit on the gravel, leaning back on her bench.

“Nah. But I’m starting to think that you do.”

“What, me? What does the girl who has everything need, then?”

“A smile that reaches her eyes would be a good start.”

She turned away from his frank gaze, abashed.

“…Well. Nobody actually has everything. Some things are mutually exclusive.”

Bull grunted.

“A woman with as much going for her as you have? Seems like if she has to fake a smile, maybe she’s holding on to some of the wrong things.”

Ainsley stared unseeing as a butterfly drifted from flower to flower across the path.

“I’m not—I’m just—shit. Fine. What the Void am I even doing here, Bull? What _am_ I? Because everyone here seems to know but me. I’m the bloody Herald of Andraste, here to usher in a new age of peace and prosperity—or order and righteousness, or freedom and justice, or whatever your particular flavor is. I’m a savior. I’m a statue with a flame burning in her hand.”

“What do you want to be?”

“Me? I dunno. When have I ever just been what I want to be? I want…fuck, I just wanna go to the tavern and get drunk and play Diamondback, but I can’t drink and everyone there just wants to—revere me. Can’t even go in now without blowing up everyone’s evening. I want to hit the road, sit around the fire, tell jokes, bash some faces. But apparently I’m too special and delicate for that now. I want…I want to never talk to another masked popinjay in my entire blighted life, but apparently that’s pretty much my whole blighted job now.”

She stopped, breathing fast.

“I can see that, yeah.” Bull waited.

“Solas asked me once what I would do with the Inquisition after Corypheus.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I said something about quitting and leaving it to the experts. He didn’t think much of that. Asked how I’d feel about seeing my hard work and sacrifice, the power that I earned, twisted to serve the will of others.”

“He saw it in the Fade.”

She snorted, and he smiled crookedly.

“Wasn’t wrong, though,” he added.

“No. Probably not.”

“So what’re you gonna do?”

“My best, I guess. Just…don’t expect my smile to always reach my eyes.”

“Fair enough.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today. Sorry, that's just how the subjects break.

“Ser?”

Two sets of eyes fixed on the messenger, who blanched a bit under their intensity.

“Your…family has arrived, ser. They’re just at the stables now.”

Cullen swallowed and reached for Ainsley’s hand. She took it and squeezed briefly, and they turned together to follow the messenger.

There was a small cluster of people milling outside the stable—soldiers, grooms, and four figures that were neither soldier nor groom. A young girl, all arms and legs and wide eyes, holding fast to the wrist of a tow-headed toddler. A man with light brown hair and heavy shoulders, moving with a slight limp as he removed saddlebags and piled them to the side, shrugging off the groom trying to help him. Last, a woman, tall and comfortably plump, wavy hair bundled into a thick blonde braid.

The woman turned as they drew near, and stopped when her eyes passed over Cullen. He stopped several yards away, smiling hesitantly. Her eyes widened, and she returned the smile with interest.

“Cullen?” She took a couple of steps closer.

“Blessed Andraste. Cullen.”

All in a rush, Mia and Cullen were embracing and laughing, and it was as free and happy a sound as any Ainsley had heard Cullen make. Long, painful years fell away in a heartbeat.

Mia held Cullen out at arm’s length, taking his jaw in her hand and turning his face this way and that.

“Maker, Cullen, but you filled out. You’re all grown up now.”

Still holding Cullen by the shoulders, she turned her smile on Ainsley.

“And so this…?”

Cullen flushed.

“Yes. This is Ainsley—ah, the Inquisitor. Ah. This is her.”

Ainsley offered a hand.

“Hi, I’m her.”

Mia laughed again, and, disregarding the hand, threw her arms around Ainsley and pulled her into a firm embrace.

After a moment, she stepped away and turned to look over her shoulder.

“Bran…”

The heavyset man was watching them expressionlessly, still standing by the pile of saddlebags. Cullen’s brother was somewhat shorter than the commander, but broader, and altogether darker-complexioned. At the hint of command in Mia’s voice, he came forward, and, just a beat too slow, offered his hand. For a second, Cullen studied him, and then clasped his forearm warmly.

“Branson. It is good to see you again. Ainsley, my younger brother, Branson. Bran, this is my…Ainsley. Ainsley Trevelyan.” Cullen cleared his throat, and Mia coughed gently behind her hand.

Branson offered his hand and a curt “Your Worship” to Ainsley, and Cullen’s eyebrows drew down, but then Mia was pushing the children forward.

“Mara, Dickie, meet your uncle Cullen and his lady. This is my eldest, Mara, twelve years last spring, and Richard—Dickie.”

“I’m thwee,” Dickie offered, extending a dimpled paw. When Ainsley took it, it was suspiciously damp, but she shook it in all seriousness.

“Welcome to Skyhold, everyone. I’m so glad to meet you.”

“Now then,” said Mia briskly, “Please show us our quarters. I have a powerful need to settle my things and wash my face. Time enough to show us around and catch up after that.”


	24. Chapter 24

By the end of the evening, Ainsley was already beginning to think that she might have an inkling what all the fuss about sisters was, and the thought filled her with a warm glow. Dickie had all but climbed Cullen, and had spent most of the tour riding on his uncle’s shoulders. The effect of slightly damp little hands periodically clutching Cullen’s hair for balance was deliciously untidy, and Ainsley had opted not to point it out in favor of just enjoying it. Mara said little, but dark eyes moved rapidly, clearly taking everything in and filing it away.

Branson stumped along behind, asking occasional terse questions about the fortress and its infrastructure, but every time his tone veered over the line of what might be considered good manners, Mia had another pressing question, and really, there was so very much to say that it was easy to move on.

Soon enough, though, Dickie was slumping over Cullen’s head, slipping first to one side and then the other, and Mia excused herself and her children for the night. Mara showed some spirit at that—she certainly didn’t need to go to bed when a three year old did—but was overruled.

As they left, Cullen turned to Ainsley and drew her close. She reached up and smoothed his hair back into place as best she could with her fingers. 

“Love, you look tired as well. It’s been a long walk. Perhaps you should retire and wash up, and I’ll be along shortly?”

Ainsley was about to amplify on Mara’s objections when Cullen flicked his eyes briefly toward his brother. That brought up a whole new set of possible objections, but he kept his gaze gentle and after a moment she sighed.

“Yes, of course. Wouldn’t want to tire myself out. My life is so strenuous lately, I hardly know what to do.”

Cullen did not roll his eyes at the sarcasm, because eye-rolling was not something that Cullen did, but he did snort lightly. She excused herself to Branson and directed one last pointed look at Cullen before turning down the hall.

…………………

Cullen watched Ainsley around the corner, and then turned to confront his brother’s flat gaze.

“Bran, if you have”—

“Branson, to you.”

Cullen’s eyebrows lowered another fraction.

“Very well. Branson. If you have a problem with something, I would prefer that you speak it.”

“A problem with the mighty hero? Oh, no. You’re too far above the likes of me, I’m sure.”

“What…” Cullen took a deep breath, and mentally recited a quick prayer for patience while he held it.

“I am a general, yes, and the course of things has put me in command over the lives of other men. That is a burden I’ve had to learn to live with, but I don’t believe that raises me above anyone in the eyes of the Maker. I hope I am still capable of accepting reasonable criticism from any source. The Maker knows I have done things I am not proud of.”

The darker man sneered. “’Have done’, then? Nothing you’re doing now you’d like to change, I guess. No problems with letting mages run around free, I guess, now that you’ve got one up the spout with your spawn. You sure it is yours, then? One hears stories about these mages.”

The intensity of Cullen’s glare had reduced many a hardened soldier to a quivering wreck before now, and with less cause, but Branson smiled—more a baring of teeth than an expression of humor—and stayed where he was, lounging against the wall.

“I’m sorry, did I touch a nerve? You’ll admit, it’s an interesting choice for the man who abandoned his family for the Templars, to then abandon his vows, as well, and champion an organization that supports unleashing the demon-bait. Tell you what, hearing that really made me feel so much better, thinking about how you chose your vows over your family, left our parents to die in the Blight, and then pissed all over the whole thing.”

Cullen’s hands ached, they were so tightly fisted. “Is that what this filth is about? Their deaths?”

“We heard about the Circle before the ‘Spawn came, you know. Mum thought you were dead. Wore herself out crying over her _golden_ son, her precious defender of the faith. What she’d think now…”

“Are you trying to provoke me?”

“I dunno, is it working? What, don’t want to be a bully? Don’t think your little brother can take it?” Branson pushed off the wall, loosening his shoulders. “Have a go, then?”

“No! No, I will not…not sully myself.” He snapped his mouth shut, teeth grinding with the effort to not say something ill-considered.

“Alright then. I’ve said my piece. Thought you should know not everyone thinks the sun shines out your arse. See you ‘round, Lion of Skyhold.”

Branson turned and walked away, leaving Cullen hunch-shouldered and seething in the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope youse guys like assholes, cuz I sure made you one.


	25. Chapter 25

It was Ainsley that knocked on Branson’s door the next day. He opened it and then froze, watching her.

“Good morning! Have a good night? Anything you needed that we can see to?” She slipped past him, smiling too brightly, taking the door from his unresisting hand and closing it as she went by. She straightened the blankets on the cot before sitting down.

“Well?”

“Ah…no? It was fine.” He stood where he had been, by the door, tense.

“So glad to hear it! So. I was hoping you might care to share some insight into why your brother came to me last night looking like someone shat in his mouth.”

He stared at her for a moment before answering stiffly. “That is between my brother and me, and I don’t see as how it’s any business of yours.”

“No? Well. Just as well I didn’t actually go when he sent me away then, isn’t it?” She grinned at him, too broadly. 

“You…heard?” His face didn’t seem to know what to do with itself, emotions warring over the muscles.

“And didn’t say anything? Yes.” She laughed at the incredulity. “Look, not to belittle your importance or anything, but I’ve spent most of my life being spit at for what I am, and for the last year and more quite a lot of the most powerful people in Thedas have been actively trying to off me, so I’m fairly jaded. Once, a man threw a goat at the castle, can you believe? You’re not _my_ brother—and _my_ brother has been publicly attacking me for a while now anyway. On the other hand, if you ever talk to Cullen like that again, there’s a fair chance I’ll freeze you to the ground and then snap your cock off.”

This time he recognized the grin for the threat it was.

“Then you mean to prove me right? Hold your powers over my head?”

“If you’d rather, I could just knee you in the giblets so hard they came out your nose. I once ran out of mana and kicked a genlock to death, so, I mean, if you’d prefer…”

Branson held his tongue, eyes showing white.

“Well,” Ainsley said, resuming her earlier light tone, “I’ve seen Mia, and she’s taken the children down to see some the Inquisition’s more unusual mounts. Cullen’s in the valley, so you and I have a prime opportunity for some…bonding. Collect yourself. We have a couple of places we didn’t get to last night that I think might interest you.”

He treated her to a flat stare, which she returned with a sunny smile. At last, he opened the door and gestured through it with exaggerated chivalry.

“I don’t expect ‘no’ would be an acceptable answer, would it?”

She walked through the door without looking to see if he followed.

After a few silent minutes of stone hallways and stone stairs, Ainsley opened a door and waved him into a long, low room with two rows of cots, punctuated in the middle with cabinets and a couple of tables. Two cots were pushed apart to make room for a game of cards, and several others were occupied. Someone worked over a mortar and pestle at one of the tables. A glass retort bubbled over a small oil lamp.

“This is the infirmary. After battles, of course, we had to set up a field hospital, but for the day-to-day, this is where our sick and injured are brought. Often enough, this includes former Templars who need help getting through a nasty bout of lyrium withdrawal. You can usually tell which ones—there, that fellow, I’d bet. See the way he sweats and draws up his knees? The way he’s kind of scrubbing at his ears? I’ve seen Cullen like that, though he was always too stubborn to go for help. Not that there’s a lot we can do. A couple of them came for help, and died here. We did offer them lyrium, and most give up and take it again, but those refused, even when they knew they were dying. They don’t want to be chained any more. 

That over there is Ulric. Came with some other templars. He’s got a locket he won’t let go of. He’ll show it to you, if you ask. It has a twist of hair in it. He doesn’t remember whose. He only knows that it’s the most important thing he has. He lives here, now.”

Branson kept his silence.

“Of course, most of the templars are dead. I killed an awful lot of them personally. Their superiors gave them red lyrium, and they trusted, and took it. And became monsters. Have you ever seen a red lyrium templar?”

He shook his head jerkily.

“Not much left that’s human. Great spikes of red crystal growing out of them. A lot of them can’t speak anymore. The glorious outcome of conditioned obedience. Only the lucky and the strong escaped to be here in the first place.

But enough of that, right? Depressing. Let’s go see the demon-bait.”

She gestured out the infirmary door. He stared at her, not moving. She grinned again, and gestured more pointedly, and he went.

They crossed the inner bailey in silence.

“This is the mage tower. We don’t require the mages to stay here, but almost all of them prefer to. Safer that way, you see. For the mages. Even here, an awful lot of people still feel like you do. There has been…friction. But there have also been weddings. A handful of babies.”

“You invite disaster on the world, favoring your kind.”

“And yet it keeps not coming. You might be interested to know that, in the entire time since we brought the mages to Skyhold, there has been one abomination. One. A young man, changed in his sleep. I’m told he experienced some fairly terrible things before he came to us. He did injure a couple of his fellows, but he was dead before soldiers arrived. The mages took care of it themselves.

We have so much to learn. I’m told by my Avvar ambassador that in their culture spirits are regularly summoned into human hosts and then dismissed again. Can you imagine! The lives that could be saved. The knowledge, the tools that fear and ignorance and hate have deprived us of.”

Ainsley examined his face and found the expected fear and revulsion. That was alright. She wasn’t trying to force him to stop being what he was. She was planting seeds. A few more seeds, then, and then just…time to let them root. And if he couldn’t change, well, she wasn’t going to wreck herself over it.

“This is the dining hall. The mages have their own kitchen. We’ve had cooking classes. Sewing classes. Various others. Most of the former circle mages have no idea how to go about the tasks of everyday life—myself very much included. We’re trying to grow up now, here, where we’re allowed.”

Branson kept his head up, a slight snarl wrinkling his nose, but somewhere in the pinch of his face, the angle of his head, she thought she saw the beginnings of curiosity. Time to move in for the kill.

“You have to wonder. What would it be like if mages could live and reproduce freely, in their own homes? Maybe send their children off to Circle to learn, but then get them _back_ after. What would it have been like if there had been mages in Honnleath? Mages to set wards. Mages to fight darkspawn. Mages to heal. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It wouldn’t be enough. Grey Wardens exist for a reason. But would you have that limp? Would your parents be dead? Or would there have been time to flee?”

She opened a new door, and they were out in the harsh sunlight on the ramparts.

“Well! I actually quite enjoyed that. It’s nice to take some time to remind myself of what we’re fighting for here. You were an excellent listener, thanks.”

Branson involuntarily snorted at that, though he scowled immediately after, and Ainsley mentally patted herself on the back.

“Now, I have work to do, so I’m going to leave you here. I don’t know shit about the sibling thing, but you should probably work something out with Cullen. Like, if an apology is out of the question, maybe free punches. I dunno. See you at dinner!”

And she waved jauntily and left him there, staring after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, you guys, I just love Ainsley so much right now.


	26. Chapter 26

Blackwall and Dickie had become fast friends over a delicately-carved fennec pull toy with rotating leather paws. The afternoon was grey, brushed with the promise of cold to come. Mia had allowed Mara and Dickie to go with him to watch the soldiers train. Leaving a wildly excited Mara miming blocking drills while Dickie bounced on Blackwall’s shoulders, Mia and Ainsley had retreated to the warmth of the Inquisitor’s room for tea in front of the fire.

“What a lovely room you have, Ainsley.”

“Thanks? It’s…big. It is nice to have a place to run away to.”

“Seems like a great many stairs, though. I don’t mean to overstep, but you might want to consider moving to somewhere more…accessible, at least for a while.”

“I already have, believe me. Josie’s having something fixed up.”

Ainsley stared into the coals, and Mia took the opportunity to give the other woman a long appraising look.

“You must be very excited to meet your son.”

“…Yes. Of course. Cullen is thrilled.”

“But you aren’t.”

Ainsley froze like a mouse who has spotted the stalking cat.

“Oh, ducky. It’s alright. Tell me, what are you afraid of?”

She stared at Mia, who smiled back encouragingly.

“Maker’s breath. You, for starters. You’re terrifying.”

“Flatterer. Now then, you don’t really have to tell me. But I’d think you’d best tell Cullen, and something tells me you haven’t. So if you’d like to practice, here’s me.”

Ainsley braced elbows on knees and blew out a long breath.

“Fine, where do I start? I’m not afraid I’ll have no idea how to be a mother, because I bloody well _know_ I have no idea. I am afraid that between a baby and my official duties I’ll never do another damn thing just because I want to, and there’ll be the rest of my life all wrapped up.” She pulled up short and scrubbed a hand over her face.

“And?”

Ainsley shot Mia a glare and then stared back into the fire. After a moment, she hugged herself, chafing her hands over her arms.

“I’m afraid…I won’t love him like I’m supposed to. Enough. Cullen already loves him so much. He talks to him when we go to bed, talks about him, watches the children run around. I just…don’t know.”

“You will. Maybe not right away. But it’ll come, and then you’ll love him so hard you’ll be afraid all over again. Cullen’s no different. Right now, he loves the idea of his son. He might not have thought of some of the…grittier details of babies, and you have. I think that’s good. But you do need to talk to him. And I don’t mean once. I mean repeatedly, indefinitely. He needs to know what you need and what you expect of him.”

Slouching down in her chair, Ainsley grunted. “Yes, ser. I know. He’s just so Maker-damned _good_. It’s intimidating.”

That comment was rewarded with a rich chuckle.

“Tell that to Branson. You can bond some more.”

………………..

At first, Ainsley didn’t know what had woken her up. Everything seemed normal—the last orange light of the banked fire, the soughing of the wind, Cullen’s even breathing…

She gasped and sat up. Cullen woke instantly.

“Love? What is it?”

“Oh, Maker, Maker, Maker, I felt it!”

“What? Felt what?”

“Him! Oh, there it is again! Here, here! Put your hand here!”

Cullen hastened to comply, spreading his hand across her growing stomach where she was indicating. They both waited breathlessly for ten seconds, then twenty.

“Oh, blight it, he’s not going to…wait! No, over here now!”

Cullen cupped his other hand around the other side of her belly, laughing giddily.

And then, a flutter under his fingers.

“Ah!” Gently, he nudged back with his fingers, and was rewarded with another flutter.

“Oh, Blessed Andraste and the Maker above. There you are, baby. There you are.” He kissed the spot, reverently.

“Where was the first one, then?”

She pointed, and he kissed there, too, several times. She squealed a bit and pushed at him. 

“Tickles!”

He laughed, and rubbed her side with a stubbly cheek, and she writhed and batted at him. He looked up at her, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Remember—diaper duties and your turn carrying the blighted thing around when it hollers and I don’t bloody get out of bed at night for anything less than an emergency. We agreed.” She mock-scowled down at him.

A boyish grin split his face.

“We agreed, yes.”


	27. Chapter 27

“Dorian? Oy, Dorian!” Hmmm. Not in the tower library. She wasn’t going to go to the tavern—it’d just be emotionally exhausting. Maybe the downstairs library?

As she came out into the great hall, Varric called out.

“Sandy! There you are. C’mere—got something to show you.”

Ainsley raised an eyebrow and followed the dwarf down the stairs, past the arcane library—a quick glance did not reveal Dorian—towards the kitchens. He stopped short of the kitchens and threw open a door, and as Ainsley moved to follow him through, she was stopped by a ragged cheer.

“There she is! How long were you going to make us wait, woman?” Well. There was Dorian. And Bull, Cullen, Sera, Blackwall, Dagna, Krem, Cole, and Josephine, all gathered around a massive wooden table, drinking and eating and smiling up at her.

She looked down at Varric, wide-eyed.

“Had a bit of a chat with Bull. Thought we should maybe remind you you’re not buried yet.”

She was not going to cry. She was _not_ going to cry.

Moments later, she was ensconced between Cullen and Dorian. Bull leaned over her, thunking down a leather tankard. She eyed him dubiously.

“You can drink it. Did a little asking around. Something out of Orlais—they make sweet cider fizzy somehow. Try it.”

She sniffed, and along with the smells of leather and beeswax was a tangy sweetness that tickled her nose. She sipped cautiously, smiled, and went for a larger swallow.

“Definitely not terrible,” she announced. Bull grinned at her.

The door creaked, and Cullen glanced up and stiffened. Ainsley followed his gaze.

Branson, standing in the doorway looking as though he was not at all sure he wanted to be there.

“Hey! You made it! Come on in, got a seat for you right here. Ale, wine, or whiskey?” Varric smiled broadly at the new arrival.

Ainsley scowled repressively at Varric.

“What are you doing,” she hissed across Cullen, who was still eyeing his brother.

“Alright, you two.” Varric kept his voice low, probably not audible to Branson, but the man was watching. “If you want to do this family thing, here’s a thing about family. Sometimes, they’re giant dickheads. Doesn’t stop them being family. And you come to terms. You don’t give them your heart to step on and you realize what they are and then you come to terms, because they’re not going to stop being family. I am an expert at dickheaded family members; just take my word for it. So yes. I invited him. Play nice.”

Branson sat down across from Cullen, eyeing him warily.

“Whiskey. Don’t screw around, just put a bottle there.”

The evening, from there, went rather better than Ainsley might have expected. She set her mind to Varric’s advice and enjoyed her friends. Branson talked little, and at first Cullen tensed up every time he did, but less and less as the evening went on. The wine, whiskey, and ale flowed, cards were played and coin exchanged, and as her companions grew rowdier, Ainsley felt herself grow giddy right along with them. Blackwall used his entirely respectable bass rumble to share a few especially vile tavern ditties, which he then had to teach Sera. 

Cullen drank more than she could recall having seen him drink before, methodically finishing one bottle of wine and straight into the next. She watched with amusement as his focus grew more and more intent on moving with coordination and articulating clearly. Branson, by contrast, seemed to be absorbing an astonishing amount of whiskey with no apparent effect. At one point he earned a round of applause by downing a shot of Maraas-Lok without coughing—a challenge Dorian failed spectacularly.

Cole had disappeared, Josephine retired, and Sera fallen asleep in her chair, slumped back and drooling, when Branson suddenly braced his hands on the table and stood up, leaning heavily toward Cullen.

“Alright, _brother_ , here’s a deal. One hand of Diamondback. If I win, I get three free punches.”

Ainsley boggled. “When I said free punches, I meant”—she trailed off as Cullen narrowed his eyes at her.

“And Cullen gets one when you’re done,” added Varric.

Branson deliberated. “Alright. Three for me, then one for Prettyboy.”

Cullen swayed slightly, and thumped his fist on the table. “Huhhh. And if…I win…you apologize to Ainsley for…the things you said.”

Branson’s gaze swung to Ainsley, who looked back, considering. Well, Cullen couldn’t play cards, but he could take a hit, surely. She shrugged. Branson shrugged.

“Deal.”

By the end of the round, everyone was watching intently.

“Alright, lay ‘em out.”

Cullen winced a bit as he put down his cards. Branson’s grin was sharklike. He laid his own cards out with a flourish.

“Hope you don’t have a glass jaw, Cull.”

Cullen pushed away from the table and stood, a touch unsteadily.

“Try me.” They circled the table, eyes locked, until they reached the open space near the door and squared off.

Branson went for a gut shot first. Cullen curled forward and tensed as it flew, and it landed on muscles about as yielding as silverite. Branson contemplated and bounced back and forth on his feet for a moment, before launching a brutal jab that took Cullen in the solar plexus. Cullen’s breath went out with a whoosh and he staggered for a moment before righting himself and squaring off again.

“That all…you got?” He spoiled the effect a little by wobbling and then shaking his head.

“Alright. Alright. Try this, then.”

The last shot was a right cross that rocked Cullen’s head back, and he wove unsteadily for several beats before catching himself on the back of a chair.

“Your turn, Curly. You got this?”

“Hnnngh.” 

Cullen shuffled sideways a few graceless steps, and Ainsley was feeling torn between laughing and covering her face when he swayed down and came up into a vicious uppercut to Branson’s jaw. Branson reeled away, knees gone limp, and only fetched up when Blackwall stretched an arm back to catch him, laughing.

Suddenly Cullen wasn’t having much trouble standing still. One cheek was already reddening, but his eyes sparkled.

Branson got his feet under him and eyed Cullen, rubbing his jaw.

“Didn’t take you for a sneaky fucker. Maferath’s hairy ballsack, you can hit, though. Alright, watch this, you smug git.”

Branson shook himself like a wet dog, and then went round the table and dropped to a knee next to Ainsley.

“Look. Obviously you’re totally gone on my brother, and he’s daft for you. So I take back any…aspersions I may have cast on your honor. They were unfounded. I mean, that _is_ what they say about mages, but if you say it’s his I guess it’s his.”

He heaved himself back up and walked to the door.

“Thanks for the booze, dwarf. You’re alright.”

Cullen watched him go, and then burst out laughing.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one for you today.

Mia eyed Cullen across the board, twirling a pawn abstractedly between her fingers. She made her move, and leaned back comfortably.

“So. Why has my brother not proposed to his lady yet?”

Cullen fumbled the piece he had been moving, knocking over a knight.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I…ahhh…had not thought…”

She stared at him flatly as he righted the knight and finished his move.

“She is…she is…the Inquisitor. And. I’m just…ahhh…she has not mentioned...” He trailed off weakly, scrubbing at the sudden tightness in his neck.

Mia sighed.

“Let me speculate, then. Stop me if I’m wrong. She’s a mage, and mages don’t get married. And templars rarely get married, and part of you keeps forgetting that you’re not a templar. And mages certainly do not marry templars.”

Cullen sat mute and resigned himself to vivisection.

“Part of you, possibly, also thinks that you are a farm boy and she’s a noble lady, despite these distinctions being mutually exclusive with the previous two. Your move, by the way.”

He blinked, and contemplated the remaining pieces.

“Now. I realize that a lot has changed for you in the last few years, so I’d understand if you were sometimes a little slow to catch up. So I’ll help you.

You’re not a farm boy, and you’re not a templar. You are the commander of the Inquisition and a hero in the eyes of Thedas. And Ainsley is neither an effete noble nor a Circle mage, and most to the point, she’s the woman who will be giving birth to your child before winter’s end!”

Mia set down her knight. Cullen sat immobile, staring at her, and she held his gaze.

“You’re right, of course.”

He stood up, nearly knocking the board.

“You’re quite right. Your pardon, Mia. I have…business to attend. We will finish out this game later.” 

He strode away with the steps of a man on a mission.

Mia looked back at the board and chuckled.

“No we won’t. Checkmate.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't gonna include this first bit, but then I thought possibly some of you would rage-quit me if I didn't, so I did.

He finally found her in the cellars with the cellarer and the stewart.

“Your pardon, but may I borrow my lady?”

The pair excused themselves, and Ainsley looked at him, eyebrow raised.

He gathered her hands into his and took a deep breath. 

“Ainsley Trevelyan, would you…be my wife?”

Ainsley stared at him.

“I…that…do…what?”

“Would you marry me?”

“Wait, is this…why are you asking? Is this an obligation thing, because of the baby?”

“What? No! It’s…I love you. I want to be with you. I want to grow old with you. I would want the baby even if he didn’t already exist. Did want, if I’m to be honest. I just…don’t know what my life would be without you and I’ve been a fool not to ask before this.”

Ainsley stared down at their joined hands, running a thumb back and forth over one of his fingers. At last she looked up, eyes sparkling in the torchlight.

“Then…yes. All of that. I want all of that. Yes.”

…………………….

It was difficult to see Mia and the children go after two weeks. Even Branson’s truculence had begun to amuse Ainsley more than it angered her. They, as well as the remaining members of the Rutherford clan, would all be returning for the wedding, with Mia, at least, to stay on for the birth.

After a great deal of fussing on Josephine’s part, the wedding had been scheduled for late winter—three months’ time. Josephine was tearing her hair out at the late notice and the travel risks of winter in the Frostbacks, but wasn’t willing to arrange anything sooner, and nobody thought that waiting longer with a bride who would already be drawing close to full term was a good idea. Ainsley and Cullen both would certainly have preferred a small quiet wedding, but whether they liked it or not the marriage of the Inquisitor and her commander was a matter of international political significance. Three months’ notice and then dead of winter were clearly as much as Josephine was willing to tolerate.

The air took on real bite, and many of the soldiers who had homes to return to were put on leave, allowing the rest to fit, however snugly, in the long low barracks being built in the valley. Ainsley and Cullen moved to their new suite on the same level as the great hall, for which Ainsley was duly grateful. Envoys were met, disputes mediated, supply issues dealt with. Ainsley’s belly grew, and Cullen worshipped it. When Cullen was otherwise occupied, Dorian took it upon himself to fuss and treat her like a porcelain doll, to her vocal annoyance and private delight.

There were more game nights in the room by the kitchens. The anticipation of them did a great deal to get her through meetings with Josephine to establish color choice and menu and bunting and song selections and a hundred other details she sincerely did not care about. She actually learned to prefer meetings about new Andrastean splinter groups and reactionaries, the king of Starkhaven’s vendettas, messages from Magister Tilani and others about dangerous rumblings in Tevinter, and the eternal refugee crisis.

There had been a steady stream of gifts both rich and humble ever since the day of Cole’s revelation. Ainsley was fairly sure that they had a minimum of four of every essential thing and quite a number of things that she did not understand the function of at all. There were several books, all of which she had at least skimmed, but half the time they seemed to directly contradict each other on seemingly fundamental points, so that she really felt more confused than enlightened. What little she did know, though, seemed to indicate that really, silk baby blankets with couched gold embroidery were _not_ a very good idea, and yet she seemed to have two.

The first snows fell, and rotating teams of soldiers, each with a pair of mages, worked to keep the roads clear. Visitors became rarer, the courtyards turned quieter, and everyone seemed to draw in on themselves, resting and waiting.

Ainsley’s hips ached and she slept fitfully. Sometimes she was a passenger in her own dreams, wandering the raw Fade as the Anchor crackled over arms that were not hers. Spirits gravitated to her in large numbers, but did not draw close, instead circling and pacing her. Other times she walked the streets of cities such as she had never seen, massive trees entangled with soaring white spires, buildings that swept around tree trunks like nautilus shells, all echoing and empty.

One evening, not long after Satinalia, Ainsley returned to her rooms to find a cloth-wrapped package on her desk. She stared at it critically. Gifts were not usually delivered to their quarters. A simple square of linen, the corners pulled up and neatly knotted. She wriggled a finger through the knot, and the fabric fell away to reveal a slim book with a soft leather binding, the cover bare. She flipped the book open, and on the inside cover, in a familiar, elegant script, were the words “Do with it what you will, falon”. On the next page, without any further preamble, were several lines of Elvhen script followed by a translation in Common and a neatly labeled sketch of a mural she remembered admiring on one of their journeys. 

She lifted the book in shaking hands, and something tugged and then clattered onto the table.

Oh. 

She had teased him about it; asked him why he wore it. He had said that it represented strength and wisdom; that it was for protection, but then he had smiled. A non-answer, among so many others. She had let it be, like she always had, but she had still teased him and tugged on it and, one day as they all tossed and turned in the tent, trying to wait out the desert heat, she had seen her opportunity. When he woke up, she was wearing it, and when she’d flashed him a cheeky grin, the look he had returned had been much darker and more complex than she had expected. She had not taken it again.

When Cullen came to bed an hour later, he found her asleep on top of the covers, curled around something in her hands, the lamplight catching the silver tracks of dried tears on her cheeks. Concerned, he thumbed her fingers open, and immediately lifted his head to glance quickly around the room. Ridiculous, of course. The elf would be long gone, if he had been here at all. Still, Leliana would need to know.

He gently disentangled the cord from Ainsley’s fingers and examined the pendant more closely. All the edges carefully smoothed, all the teeth well-anchored. Too small to really be a wolf—possibly a fennec. For the child, then.

Cullen sighed, and set about getting Ainsley into bed properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little bit of a different style going here and for the next bit--more broad-brush, squishy, time passes stuff, less concrete immediate action and conversation. Feeling a little twitchy about it. Hope it works.


	30. Chapter 30

The weeks leading up to the wedding were, to say the least, a strange time for Skyhold and its occupants. Josephine pointed out, quite correctly, that it was really just part of a necessary transformation. The Inquisition’s biggest battles were, hopefully, behind it. Now it needed to make the transformation from temporary military organization to permanent, or at least semi-permanent, political entity. Even if no one had as clear an idea as they would have liked of what, precisely, that meant.

Ainsley was even less eager to lead a political organization than she had been to figurehead a military one, but she would not abandon the elves and mages, the refugees, Divine Victoria, or any of the other fragile sprouts of true progress they had fostered. She greeted dukes and teryns, dined with Antivan envoys that made her skin twitch, and even entertained a couple of magisters (and rewarded their arrogance by unleashing Dagna on them). She stood for fittings while her feet ached and her ankles swelled up. And all around her the expectant hush of winter gave way to a feverish buzz of excitement.

Varric and Dorian reveled in it, taking every opportunity to spin the tale of the brave Inquisitor and her dashing knight. Ainsley began to wonder after a while if even Varric remembered that he had not actually seen the final confrontation, but to her surprise his description remained almost entirely accurate. As he put it when pressed, “I don’t think I could possibly come up with anything crazier than the truth.”

Cullen’s family returned, and new faces were learned and new relationships built. Cullen’s brother-in-law was quiet but kind, his youngest sister laughed and sparkled and insisted that Ainsley should hold her baby at every opportunity. One day while Branson was at the tavern Ainsley and her niece-to-be Mara slipped into his room and shortened the lacing cords in all of his pants. Mia helped her wade through the room full of baby gifts, pulling out what was useful and giggling with her over some of the more extravagant items. Ainsley thought of her own family, but the memory did not sting any more.

The wedding itself Ainsley walked through as in a dream. 

When, before the ceremony, Dorian turned her to the mirror in her quarters, a woman she did not know looked back, beautiful and elegant and powerful. The sword and flaming eye rested on her forehead in gold, and for a moment she did not want to go to Cullen looking like this—like the Herald, like the Inquisitor, like the statue with the hand full of flame, and not like little Ainsley Trevelyan who loved him so.

“It’s not me, Dorian.”

“Yes it is. You’re only seeing it from the outside for the first time. The ones who matter still know what’s on the inside.”

When they brought her to the great hall, it was easy, actually, to walk through the shimmering sea of guests with her head high, because the only person that mattered was the beautiful golden man waiting on the dais, and the only thing that mattered was the love on his face.

And then the vows were said and the cords tied and the chant sung, and the girl who had left her childhood in chains and the boy who had left his for the sword and shield and the blue bottle shook off the last remnants of those bonds and bound themselves to each other.

There was dancing, which she was largely spared by pleading the privileges of pregnancy, and greetings and congratulations, which she was not. There was food, which for once she barely tasted. 

She didn’t really wake up until they were finally in their room alone together and she realized that she had no idea how to get _out_ of her magnificent dress, and by the time the two of them managed it, they were laughing so hard there were tears on her face, and they were married and they were together and somehow they had a family—kind, simple people, complex, difficult, possibly crazy people—and they were happy.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys this is a birth scene. It's not graphic, but it's detailed. If for whatever reason that is not your cuppa tea, you can skip it, and all you'll miss is the miracle of life.

Half an hour into a strategy meeting with Josephine and an envoy from Divine Victoria, a contraction hit. It had been happening on and off for over a week, but this one felt stronger than usual. She rode it out quietly, rocking slightly in her seat.

Twenty minutes or so later, she came out of another contraction to find Josephine regarding her with concern.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?”

“Yes, fine. Of course, fine. Please go on.”

A few minutes later, another one hit.

“Inquisitor? Ainsley? Are you…what’s wrong?”

She dug up through the layers of her consciousness.

“Fine,” she ground out. “Just…fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Reverend Mother. Please, if you would excuse us, I think we need to continue this meeting later.”

“Mmmmhh,” was Ainsley’s contribution.

After that, time began to expand and contract strangely. They were moving, Josie’s hand under her arm, and then Dorian was chattering excitedly and everything was too loud and too bright, and then Dorian was gone and they were in her room, and it was dim and warm and quiet and safe. At some point, Cullen was there, and she was hanging around his neck as though it was an anchor in the storm and he was grinning excitedly at her and this was really going to happen. Was really happening.

Mistress Bagley came next, and then Mia, and then they were coaxing her out of her day clothes and into a loose shift. At some point, Ainsley heard Mistress Bagley tell Cullen to leave, and felt his arm tighten reflexively on her waist.

“He’s not…fucking…going…anywhere.”

Cullen’s chest shook with a short laugh. 

“What the lady said.”

Mistress Bagley threw up her hands in resignation.

The next hours blended together into a single rhythmic memory of tension and release. For a long time she stayed hanging from Cullen’s neck, and he stood like a rock for so long that she worried, in a moment of lucidity, that his muscles would cramp. She swayed and moaned quietly into his chest and he held her and whispered his love into her ear, and time passed but she never remembered it afterwards, and people moved around them but she never saw.

The last hour before dawn found her kneeling next to the bed, resting her head against the coolness of the sheets. Mia was by her side, now. Cullen dozed slouched over an armchair, and Mistress Bagley watched calmly from her seat by the fire.

Ainsley turned shadowed eyes to Mia.

“I’m tired. I’m so tired. I don’t want to do any more. It hurts, and I’m tired.”

“You’re doing beautifully, ducky. From the look of you, I don’t think it’ll be much longer ‘til you’re pushing. You’ll like pushing better—feels more like doing something.”

She regarded Mia blearily.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Ainsley blinked twice, slowly, and then there was a peculiar popping sensation, and abruptly the towel under her knees was soaked.

Time began to spin faster again. Cullen jerked awake to shouts of “It’s not better, you liar! It is _not better!_ ” He scrambled to kneel behind her, and after a moment the tension left her body and she leaned back on him, head lolling against his shoulder. He looked to Mia and she smiled back at him, shrugging.

“Sorry, ducky. Different for everyone.”

Ainsley’s body went rigid again, and she threw a hand out, flailing blindly. Mistress Bagley bent over the bed to take it, and bore the crushing grip without comment. For long minutes, Ainsley struggled violently with herself, silent save for broken whimpers, and Cullen ached and doubted and feared and could not shield her from this and surely this was too much, too long?

“Ainsley.”

“Nnnngh.”

“Ainsley, love.” The midwife shook her hand lightly, and Ainsley turned a sweat-soaked face up from the sheets.

“You need to let him out, love.”

“Don’t…want…to.”

“Ainsley…”

“Hurts!”

“Then let it be over. Let him out. Stop fighting it.”

After a long pause, Ainsley nodded. And then her entire body coiled into a knot of effort, and a deep growl rumbled in her throat, and the Anchor split open and cast green light over the bed and tingled on everyone’s skin. There was only a second’s respite before the next herculean effort, and then the next, and then what started as another low growl in her chest grew and grew until it was an ear-shattering roar.

Mistress Bagley sprang up.

“It’s coming. Out of the way.”

Cullen blinked up at her, confusion fighting instinct.

“Move or catch, man! Move or catch!”

He didn’t know what he was doing, could hardly hear, only knew that he was not leaving Ainsley while she roared and strained like that, and so he put out faltering hands and to his everlasting astonishment felt a round, wet skull and then, suddenly, the world shifted, and the roar cut off at last, and his son’s head was _right there_. Ainsley panted for breath, and Mia exclaimed, just a burst of joyful sound, and then with one last rippling shrug of effort, almost an afterthought, the baby slipped out and Cullen caught him in shaking hands.

For a moment, father and son stared at each other, both silent. The baby’s eyes caught the light of the anchor and shone green, though the angle was all wrong, and he was so tiny and so calm and perfect. Tiny, perfect hands, tiny, perfect feet, skin streaked with a waxy covering and touched with purple but smooth and without mark. Perfect.

It took some tricky maneuvering to get an exhausted Ainsley and the baby right way ‘round over the cord, and he started fussing, just a thin, plaintive sound, but it stopped as soon as he was pressed to his mother’s heart. And she was pale and drawn and sweat-soaked, her hair sticking out in all directions, but as she beamed down at their son he thought she had never been so beautiful.


	32. Chapter 32

It was nearly lunchtime before the new parents roused themselves enough to receive visitors. Ainsley was still thoroughly drained, of course, but they knew that a whole crowd of friends and family had been in the great hall since morning, playing cards and failing entirely to look like they had any good reason to be there. So, once the couple had pulled themselves together and Ainsley was propped up in bed, a freshly changed baby boy in her arms, Mia went and fetched the first lot.

No one disputed Dorian and Varric’s right to go first.

“Hey Sandy. You look rough.”

“Thanks. Be grateful they washed the blood off.” Varric laughed, and at Ainsley’s signal Cullen took the baby from her to allow the other men a closer inspection.

Varric peered at the baby with undisguised curiosity. His initial alertness gone, he dozed now in Cullen’s arms, having barely roused for the transfer. Most of his body was hidden by the swaddling, but one arm had worked loose, exposing one tiny hand.

“You’d better give me a handle for this fellow, or I’m just going to call him Grub. Might call him that anyway.”

Ainsley smiled. “Grub suits him, but you might try Hugh.”

“Hugh Revas Rutherford,” Cullen elaborated.

Varric glanced at Ainsley, eyebrow raised.

“Hugh for my cousin who died in the dissolution of the Circles—to stand for the mages. Revas…” She looked aside for a moment, as if searching for words. “It means free, or freedom, in Elvish. So, Revas, to stand for the elves, or just…to stand for freedom. To…remind him. Because…because the fight will never be done with just us, will it?”

“No. No it won’t.”

Cullen looked past Varric to Dorian, who had yet to say anything and hung back, uncharacteristically reserved. He smiled at the other man encouragingly.

“Well?”

“You made a person.”

“Yes?”

“An actual live person. Does it do anything?”

“Ahhh…so far, he nurses and sleeps and squeaks. I expect he’ll work up to more later. Would you like to hold him?”

“Me? Goodness no. I’d make it cry.”

Cullen closed the gap between them.

“We’ll fix it if he does. Here, put your arm like this, and take—no, hand on the back of his head; he’s all floppy. There. See?”

The baby, disturbed, threw out his free arm and tangled minute fingers in Dorian’s robe.

“Huh. Hello, Hugh.” Dorian tried out the name.

“Hugh Revas Rutherford. He’s all red, did you know?

And so Hugh began to meet his family.


	33. Epilogue

No one had seen him come, and no one would see him leave. He stood wrapped in the shadow of an arch, smiling slightly at the scene in front of him.

Ainsley’s shoulders were rounded forward as she reached down, a tiny, silky hand wrapped around each of her thumbs. A fine quiff of strawberry-blonde hair caught the sun, and below it, the boy’s mouth gaped in an “O” of concentration. He let go of first one hand and then the other, reaching out to the man crouching in front of him. Cullen responded by putting his own arms out, smiling encouragement. Behind him, Dorian laughed with delight as the babe took one tentative step, and then two.

And then a rock caught at the babe’s toe, and he knew, all at once he knew what was about to happen.

He felt the Veil part, so gently. Felt a ripple of his own magic brush against his mind. Saw Hugh fall, but never hit the ground. Saw him disappear in a flicker of green, saw a shimmer of light dart forward, and saw the child reappear in his father’s outstretched hands.

Revas. Freedom. A child unfettered by the Veil.

Perhaps his task here was not entirely at an end.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a pregnancy fiction that was NOT fluffy, or at least not entirely fluffy, and this is what happened.


End file.
